A Long Road
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: House's leg pain is getting worse and worse. He is eventually hospitalized because of it, and drastic measures need to be taken.
1. Chapter 1

Foreman sighed, watching House play with his oversized tennis ball, looking unhappily at the red and gray fuzz.

He was sitting in his old chair in the differential room, wondering what was wrong. They didn't have a patient at present, not one the kids had brought to them yet, anyway, but House still looked like he was thinking about something.

Foreman jumped up, as House suddenly tensed, dropping the tennis ball and leaning forward, clutching his thigh.

"House?"

Foreman put his hands on the older doctor's shoulders, pushing him back so he could see House's face.

"House?" he asked again, trying to get House to answer him.

"Kyaaah..." it wasn't a reply, it was a just a groan, but it told Foreman something anyway. It told him that House wasn't with it enough to keep himself from groaning.

"House, give me a number, ok? How bad?"

"Eight." he ground out.

Foreman sighed, realizing that House's eight–close to the worse pain he had ever felt–had to be higher than most people's.

House gasped, trembling harder, turning whiter than he had been after getting shot.

Pain, yeah, House could fake that if he was getting really desperate for drugs, but be even he couldn't pale on cue.

Foreman lifted House off the chair– he was about to fall out anyway– and lowered him to the floor, where he curled into a ball, still clutching at his thigh, white knuckled.

Foreman then pushed open the door to the balcony, hopped over the low barrier, and entered Wilson's office. He wasn't there—not that he was speaking to House anyway.

Foreman turned around, back over the divider, into House's office.

Whatever was happening, it was serious, and Foreman would have to deal with it himself.

He dug in House's desk drawers, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, syringe, nothing, morphine.

House had gone past clenching now, he was halfway passed out, unable to move. He didn't even react when Foreman tied the tourniquet around his arm, injecting the morphine, his arm flopping back down when Foreman released it.

Foreman realized House was barely breathing, so out of it in pain that he apparently thought it wasn't worth the risk that it would cause his leg to move.

Foreman dragged House upright, holding him up with one arm and rubbing his back with the other, trying to get him to breathe.

He gasped, finally taking in several ragged breaths, still completely limp.

It took twelve more minutes for House's breathing to steady into solid existence, but he still didn't move.

"House?" asked Foreman, still rubbing despite House's semi-regular breathing.

"Nnnhhnnn..." the noise was so faint Foreman almost missed it. As it was, he actually wished he hadn't heard it. Because if it hadn't come out, he might have been able to believe that House was unconscious.

Ten minutes later, House still hadn't moved, and Foreman realized that the morphine hadn't been enough, House was still in unbearable pain.

"Hang on." he said, shifting House so he could pull his phone out of his pocket.

"Cuddy? Yeah, something's really wrong with House, with his leg. Really wrong. Yeah. No. Seriously. No, I mean really wrong. Look, do you think I would care if it wasn't real? *Thank* you."

"House, hang on. Cuddy's coming."

House made a tiny, tiny sound, that could barely even be called a whimper.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ten minutes later, Cuddy finally arrived, looking slightly doubtful. She stopped, paling rapidly as she realized how bad the situation was.

"House?"

He didn't respond.

Cuddy knelt down, placing her hand on the side of his face, noticing the tiny tremors running through his otherwise limp body.

Foreman lifted House into the wheelchair Cuddy had brought, trying to not care when House's breath caught, and he reverted to the tiny, ragged inhales that he had been using earlier.

"Sorry." said Cuddy, looking at Foreman.

"Not me that's hurting."

Cuddy nodded.

Halfway to the bed Cuddy had set up, House started trembling harder, sliding out of the chair and onto the floor.

Cuddy knelt down, rolling him over. She swallowed when she saw his expression.

Foreman lifted him back into the chair, wincing internally at the violent tremors.

They finally made it to the room, and Foreman lifted House onto the bed, ignoring the sharp gasps as House's leg was moved.

"House, do you know what's going wrong?" asked Cuddy calmly, leaning over him.

"Nnnhhn."

Cuddy sighed.

"Can you go find Wilson?"

Foreman nodded, leaving. It was uncomfortable to see, how much pain House was in.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He finally found the oncologist in the clinic, examining some girl's rash.

Foreman quietly asked for a consult, then turned, stopping only a few feet away from the door.

Wilson paled when Foreman told him, looking horrified.

"Where?"

"Upstairs. Cuddy's with him."

Wilson nodded, then paused.

He shook his head.

"No."

Foreman stared at him.

The younger doctor's pager went off.

He looked down at it, then back up. Wilson was gone.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Foreman got there, House was in even worse shape than before, his eyes were rolled up, and he barely breathing again.

Cuddy had placed several pillows under his leg, but they didn't seem to have had an effect.

She looked at Foreman, then past him, then back at his face.

"Where's Wilson? Could you not find him?"

"He wouldn't come."

Cuddy stared at him.

"What did you give him?" asked Foreman, noting the empty syringe on the table next to the bed.

Cuddy looked up, eyes desperate.

"Twelve more CC's. Nothing's helping."

Foreman nodded, walking forward, resting his hand on his boss/employee's warm, damp and trembling shoulder.

"House?"

House didn't hear him; he was beyond noticing anyone talking to him.

Cuddy glanced up at Foreman.

"Can you get someone in here? An anesthesiologist?"

He nodded.

Cuddy sat on the edge of the bed, gently placing her hand on House's chest, letting him know she was there.

House grasped Cuddy's arm weakly with a trembling hand, his grip barely noticeable.

Cuddy softly rubbed House's shoulder, trying to provide even a tiny bit of relief.

she looked up as the anesthesiologist came in, hoping something would help.

The guy took one look at House, and turned to Cuddy.

"We gotta put him out, that much pain is going to cause too much stress."

House muttered something weak and rasping, but she understood.

"What about an epidural?"

The guy shrugged.

"Well, yeah, that would work. It's just better if his mind gets a break as well as his body."

Cuddy shook her head.

"That's what he wants, though I don't know why."

The guy nodded, and left to get the medication.

Cuddy looked back down at House, concern filling her eyes.

House was so pale, was in so much pain, Foreman wondered if he could take being conscious, but knew better than to argue.

The anesthesiologist returned after what seemed like hours, and Foreman and Cuddy helped turn House onto his side, curling him for the spinal injection.

Almost immediately House's trembling began to diminish, and he went fully limp again.

Everyone except Cuddy left, giving House as much privacy as possible.

House's hand, still on Cuddy's arm, slid down, grasping her hand lightly.

she gave it a brief squeeze, watching House slowly relax, pain being replaced by exhaustion.

Cuddy watched House's breathing steady, his eyelids closing halfway.

She didn't want to disturb House right then, but she needed to know what had caused this.

"House?" she asked softly, reaching to pull the blanket at the end of the bed over the exhausted doctor.

"Uh-huh." mumbled House, half asleep already.

"What happened?"

"'s been... gettin' wr'se." House replied, his words slurring out of tiredness.

Cuddy nodded. She had noticed that. But it hadn't been anywhere near this bad....

"'n... I... uh.... tripp'd..... 'n.........."

Cuddy sighed as House fell asleep, giving her sleeping employee a quick squeeze around the shoulders, and tucking the blanket comfortably around the older doctor.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House dreamed of his gameboy, and shooting lollipops with a chemo ray the size of mars, of his patient, who had a large porcupine stuck in her left lung, which was why it was collapsing twice an hour, of a large wrestler squashing a tiny doll wearing a police uniform in a large vat of tomatoes, of Wilson in the bathroom and the village people and a marine and ice and a tub and dirt and mud and pain broken bones and blood and screaming and tears and begging and thrashing and cold and shivering and rocks and trees and bruises and the bus and amber and freezing and the tub in the backyard and protective hypothermia and opened his eyes to find Cuddy and Foreman holding him down and telling him it was alright and looking upset.

He lay there for a moment, as Cuddy looked at him with relief, and Foreman just looked at him, then shut his eyes as the pain hit him full-force, thought that he must have knocked the IV out, heard himself screaming, felt tears running down his face unchecked, felt someone, Cuddy or Foreman, he didn't know, grip his arm, as another wrapped their arms around him from the side, holding him still as the waves of pain crashed over him, as his hand grasped at their shirt desperately, as he held on, still screaming, the one anchor keeping him from getting lost in the pain.

He heard someone yelling, felt himself being rolled onto his side, the person holding him only shifting their grip, his hand still clenching their shirt.

He knew something poked his back, but it was so insignificant compared to the pain in his leg that he barely felt it.

He felt something push through the skin in the same place, and this time he noticed it, a deep, stabbing pain, but didn't fight it, because the person holding him was telling him to hold still, that it was ok, that it would take away the larger pain, that they had him, he was ok, everything was going to be ok.

He felt an odd sensation in his lower abdomen, then the pain cut off, his leg stopped hurting, he could barely tell it was still there. He felt nothing other than numb pressure bellow his waist.

He didn't move for a long time, just laid there, panting, catching his breath, reveling in the release from the pain.

He finally opened his eyes, to find a very close view of Cuddy's breasts. He wished he weren't so tired.

He felt someone still futzing with his back, but didn't care.

He heard Cuddy's voice telling him not to move, that it was ok, but he shouldn't move.

He nodded, then frowned, unsure if that had counted as moving.

He heard her laugh a little, felt her hand gently smoothing his hair, all sticking up from his thrashing earlier.

He heard Foreman's voice thanking someone, then footsteps, the door, more footsteps, then felt a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

He felt himself drifting off again, but this time he did not dream.

He awoke to a strange sensation of his pants being pulled down, but only half feeling it, his lower body mostly numb.

He opened his eyes, noticing a second sensation, of something stroking his hair.

He blinked, as he saw Cuddy there again, still in the same clothes, but sitting at a different, much less revealing angle.

He realized his hand was still holding the shoulder of her shirt, and loosened it, making her look down at his face.

He saw her smile briefly at him, and tried to return the gesture, but was pretty sure he had only managed a small twitch of one corner of his mouth.

He saw her smile again, then look away.

He opened his mouth, mumbling something soft and a little slurred with tiredness. "Wha's goin' on?"

She looked back down, giving him a third quick grin.

"We gave you an epidural. You pooped your pants."

House groaned, rolling his eyes.

Cuddy smiled for real, still stroking his hair.

"It better?"

He nodded, twisting a little to try and see the catheter going into his back, but stopped, as Cuddy's hand pulled his shoulder back towards her.

"Don't twist, you might budge the catheter."

He sighed, as someone he couldn't see–though he hoped it was a guy–pulled his boxers off, wiping between his legs like he was a child.

"This is humiliating." he commented, as he heard the person mention that he had peed as well.

Cuddy laughed quietly, shaking her head.

"Yeah, well, it's better than if we just let you lie here in your own excrement." said the voice.

House groaned. It was Foreman.

"What happened to the patient?"

"Her lung collapsed."

House frowned.

"Check her for parasites."

"We did a fecal smear while you were out. Negative."

"Check her _lung_ for parasites. Or did you get digestive tract and respiratory system confused?"

Foreman sighed, rolled his eyes for Cuddy's benefit, and dangled a urine catheter in front of House's eyes.

House snatched it away.

"No chance in hell!"

"You've got a complete pain block from your belly button down, House. I could break your leg and you wouldn't care."

House glared at him, holding the catheter close to his chest, completely oblivious to the fact he looked like a child holding their teddy-bear.

He raised his eyebrows, however, as he realized that Cuddy was still running her hand through his hair.

She stopped.

Foreman said nothing about the exchange, just held up a pair of scrub pants, apparently trying to guess if they would fit.

"How tall are you?" he asked finally, giving up trying to estimate from House's curled up position.

"Six three."

Foreman snorted, and set the scrubs down, leaving the room for a different set.

House smirked.

"Is there a reason I'm getting actual pants instead of a stupid hospital robe?"

Cuddy shrugged.

"You hate hospital robes."

"True. Though the fact you never let me have scrubs before..."

"This time you're unlikely to run away."

House snorted.

Cuddy watched him for a moment, then sighed.

"What _was_ that?" she asked softly.

House looked away.

"Don't tell Wilson."

"I think he might have noticed. Foreman went to get him, he wouldn't come." said Cuddy dryly.

"No, I mean don't tell him what it was. Promise you won't tell, no matter what it is. Promise that if you tell you forfeit the right to nag me about clinic duty and showing up on time."

Cuddy sighed.

"That's stupid."

House glared fiercely, surprising her.

"Then promise that if you tell you won't ever try and get pregnant again."

Cuddy blinked. He was really serious?

"House, that doesn't make sense..."

"Promise!" he demanded, lifting his head as far as he could off the pillow, ignoring how heavy it seemed.

Cuddy frowned. He seemed really upset.

"I promise." she said quietly.

House dropped his head back down, sighed, breathing a little heavily, then lifted it again, struggling to sit up even a little bit.

"It's been... getting... worse."

Cuddy blinked, unsure of what he meant. Did he really mean...?

"That much worse?"

"The breakthrough... pain. All of... it, but... espec... i... all... y... th...a... t." he seemed to be struggling to talk.

Cuddy swallowed, nodding, as he forced himself to keep glaring at her, though obviously fading and very desperate.

"Ok, House. Ok, shhh. I won't tell, it's ok."

He nodded tiredly, letting himself drop back, eyes half closed by the time he hit the pillow.

"Shhh, it's ok. It's ok." she continued, as he drifted off again, exhaustion at the day's events getting the better of him.

Foreman came back in, blinking as he saw that House was asleep.

"He's tired." she said, unnecessarily, but Foreman nodded anyway.

"It's been getting worse, hasn't it?" he asked, folding the scrubs in a pile next to House's chest and covering him with the sheets.

Cuddy frowned.

"He told you that?" she asked.

Foreman raised his eyebrows.

"Like that'd happen. No, it just seemed like it."

Cuddy thought for a moment.

"Yeah, it has. That's what he said. He also made me promise that I wouldn't tell Wilson."

Foreman nodded.

"Stupid but typical. Doesn't want Wilson to talk to him out of guilt."

Cuddy paused for a long moment, then started laughing, quiet, but slightly hysterical.

"You're right." she said, as Foreman looked at her questioningly, and a little unnerved, "You're very right."


	2. Chapter 2

House was released after a day, and a whole week passed without incident.

Then on the following Thursday, Foreman entered the office after eating lunch, to find House under his desk, blinds closed, apparently hiding.

"Uh... House?"

No answer.

Foreman set his coffee on House's desk, bending down to get a better look.

"You're stupid." was all Foreman said, as he noticed the damp patches on House's shirt–he'd been there for a while.

"You're ugly." replied House tightly, not bothering to glare at him, just clenching his teeth a little more and rolling his eyes.

"And you're illogical. Why the hell don't you want Wilson to know your pain's getting worse? He might start talking to you again."

"And you're annoying."

Foreman picked up his coffee and sat down, effectively trapping House under the desk because of the large box on the other side–not that he would, or could, go anywhere.

House looked wearily at him for a moment, then clenched as yet another wave of cramping hit.

Foreman watched, somewhat unhappily, as House curled further around his thigh, trembling.

"And pathetic." said Foreman flatly, hearing a small whimper come from the older doctor.

House didn't answer, he was too focused on fighting off the pain.

"House, seriously, this is the fifth time I've found you on the floor in two weeks, not counting the one where the patient hit you and you couldn't get up after."

No reply.

Foreman sighed, stood up, and walked to the hall door.

"Where are you going?" panted House, sounding worried.

Foreman didn't answer, just opened the door and walked out.

A few minutes later, Cuddy came in, knelt down, and slapped House across the side of the face, worried and furious.

"YOU'RE AN IDIOT!"

"You told her?!"

"I'm sick of watching you kill yourself."

Cuddy dragged House out from under the desk, bracing him around the shoulders as he gasped, visibly trembling from the pain.

Foreman left, having hit his limit for connecting with his acerbic boss.

Cuddy sighed, as House started to lose focus, shaking hand grasping her arm.

"Shhh, sorry. Shhh, it's ok House, shhh."

"Nnnhnnn...."

Cuddy sighed again, holding her somewhat-friend still.

She hadn't meant to make the pain worse, but she obviously had.

House eventually relaxed a little, but he was obviously very tired and still in a great deal of pain.

"Think you can handle moving to the recliner?" asked Cuddy softly, House still leaning against her, too tired to be annoyed at the contact.

House shrugged a little, eyes closed.

Cuddy didn't move him, and instead stayed where she was, letting House fall asleep rather than risking more pain.

* * *

An hour later, House groaned, tossing on the hospital bed, his leg still a hot, boiling, aching sinkhole of pain.

He opened his eyes, blinking uncomfortably in the bright lights.

"House? Cuddy said you passed out." Foreman's voice. What the hell was Foreman doing there? And why did he sound like he was actually worried?

"Urgn... probably, yeah. Wouldn't surprise me if I had."

"And she stuck you in the MRI while you were unconscious."

"Ok..." said House, painfully trying shift himself to a sitting position, but giving up partway, chest heaving, face pale and covered in sweat, from just that small exertion.

Foreman pushed the button that raised the head of the bed, waited until House caught his breath, and continued, "Long story short, you're really screwed."

"Thanks for the medical explanation."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"There's a massive amount of degeneration, both muscle and nerve. Cuddy's gonna bring the scans by."

House sighed tiredly.

"Great."

Foreman sighed as well.

"Look, I'm here because Cuddy asked me to, not 'cause I'm gonna go all emotional on you."

House looked considerably relived–though still exhausted and in pain—and rubbed his throat. It was pretty dry, he hadn't been able to keep anything down for a while–the pain made him too nauseous.

Foreman watched him for a moment, then folded his arms, leaning back in the chair.

"You're pathetic."

House rolled his eyes.

"And boring. But on the upside, you probably won't go anywhere if I leave for a moment. Don't die while I'm gone, I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Well, since you asked, I'll try not to." rasped House.

Foreman snorted, getting up.

House sat there, held up solely by the bed, and realized Cuddy really had known what she was doing, when she asked Foreman to watch him. He hated being alone the pain. He hated people pitying him more. He didn't hate being not alone with someone who didn't pity him. Foreman didn't pity him. Foreman barely cared enough to notice, much less pity. He didn't hate Foreman being there. He did kind of hate Foreman not being there. The last one surprised him.

Foreman came back in, carrying two coffee cups from the machine in the hall. He set one on the bed table.

House glared steadily at him.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"It's just coffee."

"I should hope so."

Foreman sighed.

"It's coffee. You're thirsty. It's not even hot coffee, I just didn't want you to get all whiny."

House snorted, reaching shakily to take the cup.

He took a sip of it, waited for a moment, then took another.

Foreman watched this, a little confused.

Since when was House hesitant about drinking coffee?

He got his answer when House set the cup down, swallowing rapidly and squeezing his eyes shut.

House didn't snap when Foreman put an emesis basin on the bed next to his hand.

Foreman waited, watching House breathe, trying to get control of his reflexes.

It didn't seem to work, and House turned a bit onto his side, leaning painfully over the basin.

"You ok?"

"Shut up."

Foreman sighed.

"You're really not ok. Definitely not."

House grunted.

Foreman dug in a cabinet, then pushed something into House's IV.

House glared at him.

"What was that?"

"Compazine."

House blinked tiredly.

"Oh."

He shuddered, as his leg spasmed, making him gasp involuntarily.

Foreman watched him calmly, as House panted, painfully trying to roll onto his side–so he would be facing away from Foreman–but failing to do even that.

"You're an idiot."

House looked sideways at him, still panting.

"Yeah, well... you're not... urgh...."

Foreman blinked, as House trailed off.

"I'm not what?"

House had closed his eyes, his face twisted into a grimace, hands clenching the blankets until his knuckles went white, the veins in his hands and arms standing out.

"Oh."

Foreman got up, walking around the bed to the morphine drip.

It was set pretty low, just enough to take the real edge off the baseline pain.

Foreman clicked it up three cc's per hour, pulled out a little with a syringe, bolusing it into the line going to House's arm.

House finally relaxed a little, still panting, but less clenched.

As he did relax, Foreman was able to see that he was trembling, not just from tense muscles, but simply from the pain.

"God House, what were you thinking? You can barely move, why didn't you tell someone?"

House didn't reply.

Foreman stood up again, frowning.

"House?"

No answer.

He looked at the heart-rate monitor. Very fast, but not life threatening.

Foreman hesitantly put his hand on House's shoulder, hoping to give him some sort of anchor.

He wasn't expecting House's hand to grab his, holding it so tightly that he could literally hear his bones grinding.

He sighed, squeezing back, and sitting down.

After a much too-long period, maybe twenty minutes, House's hand unclenched, limp in Foreman's grasp.

"House?"

"'s better... now...." mumbled House, totally exhausted.

"Ok, House." said Foreman quietly, watching House drift quickly off, still trembling,"Ok, get some sleep."

Damn Cuddy. How did she expect him to watch House be in that much pain and still be calm and distant? He didn't hate House. He almost cared about him, and watching him be like this was awful.

* * *

An hour later, House opened his eyes, still looking absolutely exhausted, eyes and expression still clouded with pain.

"House?"

House started to turn over, but Foreman stopped him with an uncomfortable hand on his shoulder.

"You tried that before. Didn't turn out so well, remember?"

House sighed, letting himself sink back into the pillows.

"House, I'm gonna raise your morphine, ok?"

House nodded tiredly, eyes already starting to slide closed.

Foreman watched him for a while, unhappy with the way things were going.

This wasn't going to work.

This was _really_ not going to work.


	3. Chapter 3

"House?"

House snuffled a little, but didn't wake.

Foreman got up, clicking the morphine down a few cc's. The pain seemed to have subsided a little.

House mumbled something in his sleep, sounding upset.

He kept talking, hands moving a little, defensively, as though trying to ward off a blow.

He shot up suddenly, eyes wide, chest heaving, on his feet in less time than it took Foreman to blink.

Then he sunk down, almost in slow motion, his hand, which had shot out as soon as he registered what was going on, sliding off the rail of the bed, eyelids flickering, entire body shaking.

Foreman picked him up in one motion, arms under House's knees and shoulders, and dumped him–less gently than he had intended–back onto the bed.

House just laid there, trembling, limp.

Foreman rolled him onto his left side, folded a pillow between his legs, and curled him a little, trying to imitate the position House had moved himself into several times before.

"House."

No answer.

Foreman sighed, bolusing some morphine, then sitting back down and picking up the journal he had been reading before House had woken up.

"Foreman." a very faint and hoarse whisper.

Foreman looked up.

House's eyes were still closed, but his head was turned towards Foreman.

"What?"

"You need... to lower the drip."

Foreman frowned. House was asking for _less_ drugs?

"Why?"

"'s too high. Or you put too much in... 'm not s'posed to have to think about breathing."

Foreman winced, lowering the drip by a few cc's.

Then he frowned, peering at the display.

"It was only set at ten per hour, and I gave you four. No way that should be enough to cause respiratory depression, especially in someone with a tolerance."

House didn't answer.

Foreman stared at him.

"You've been taking something. The pain was getting worse, but the acetaminophen levels from your vicodin were too high. You were trying to reduce your tolerance so you didn't end up killing yourself."

A small, shaky nod.

"Which is why you didn't tell Cuddy before it got this bad. You didn't want her to know the acetaminophen was damaging your liver."

Another nod.

Foreman shook his head, unsure what he felt.

Sure, just _telling_ someone would have been a lot better. But... at least House had been trying to do something. Even if it had landed him here.

Foreman looked back at House, as the beeping of the heartrate monitor suddenly increased dramatically.

"House?"

He was so pale...

Foreman stood, putting his hand on House's shoulder.

Trembling, even harder than before.

"House, can you answer me?" he asked, shaking the shoulder his hand was resting on.

No response.

House's eyelids were fluttering, his pulse was skyrocketing... Foreman didn't know how much stress his body could take.

"House!"

Shit. No pain meds, his respiration was already depressed. No sedatives, for the same reason. He yelled for a nurse. Nobody was in earshot.

Neither of them were ever really sure how it happened. But one moment Foreman was standing there, watching the heartrate monitor, the next he was sitting on the bed, House lying across him, crying.

Foreman paged Cuddy then refocused on trying to get House to calm down.

When Cuddy skittered into House's room, high heels slipping and nearly making her twist her ankle, she was both gratified and horrified by what she saw.

Gratified because her plan to get House to let someone support him had worked.

Horrified because he was in that much pain, supported or not.

"The morphine's only at eight cc's per hour," said Cuddy, checking the drip, "Why didn't you raise it?"

"Because his respiration was depressed at ten."

Cuddy stared at Foreman.

Foreman shook his head—this was not the time to explain.

She looked around, biting his lip.

There wasn't much they could do.

A long beep from the status box. Pulse 173.

Cuddy paged an anaesthesiologist.

Pulse 178.

House screamed.

Pulse 182.

Foreman squeezed House's hand, hard.

Pulse 186.

The anaesthesiologist arrived, looking out of breath.

Pulse 189.

Cuddy explained the situation over House's second scream.

Pulse 191.

The anaesthesiologist prepared an epidural.

Pulse 194.

Foreman and Cuddy moved House into position.

Pulse 197.

House screamed at the movement.

Pulse 199.

The anaesthesiologist injected the block.

Pulse 202.

They waited.

Pulse 198.

Pulse 195.

Pulse 189.

Pulse 186.

Pulse 178.

Pulse 171.

Pulse 163.

Pulse 156.

Pulse 142.

Pulse 130.

Pulse 114.

Pulse 109.

Pulse steady at 109.

Everyone let out a long, long sigh. Except House, who was panting too quickly to do so.

The anaesthesiologist left, but he said he would be nearby in case of another emergency, and that he would check back in an hour if he wasn't paged.

Foreman asked Cuddy to hand him the syringe of compazine on the table to his left, and she did.

They all waited a while, everyone watching House's still tense form.

He finally relaxed a little, opening his eyes.

"Go away." he said, very quietly.

Cuddy bit her lower lip.

"Are you sure--"

"Go away!" said House, vehement despite the weak volume.

Cuddy left.

Foreman tried to get off the bed, but House wouldn't let go of him.

"Uh...."

House closed his eyes, letting his head drop back onto Foreman's chest.

He was asleep within ten seconds.

Foreman just sat there, feeling incredibly awkward.

* * *

Two days later, House was allowed to be up because the pain had faded some. Cuddy had stuck Foreman with being House's attending, which basically meant he was supposed to keep House from killing himself with pure brashness.

This, unfortunately, included following him down the hall, as he slowly struggled his way towards the elevator, intent on getting Cuddy to stop making Foreman baby-sit him.

How dragging his half conscious ass down to her office holding himself up solely by the help of his IV rack—which really wasn't supposed to be used as a crutch—was supposed to convince her of that, Foreman wasn't really sure.

House stopped, leaning heavily on the rack, shoulders visibly tense through the thin hospital gown.

"If I convince her to let you wear scrubs instead of the gown, will you go back to your room?" asked Foreman, watching House reflexively cover his thigh with his left hand as several nurses passed them.

House turned briefly to glare at him, then continued forward.

Foreman sighed, shaking his head.

As the reached the middle of the hallway, House stopped again, grabbing the rack with his left hand as well, looking like he was trying to climb it like a rope.

Foreman took a step closer than he had been the whole time, hands hovering a few inches away from House's shoulders.

"House?"

He was starting to sag, a little.

Foreman waited however. He wasn't going to make either of them more miserable by pushing boundaries when it wasn't necessary.

The rack suddenly rolled out from under House's weight, and Foreman grabbed him, keeping him from falling.

House grunted, then tried to push away from Foreman.

"Stop it. You'll fall. And it won't feel good."

House stopped struggling, though Foreman didn't think it was because he was listening.

"Crap." muttered Foreman, pulled House's arm over his shoulder, "Try and move yourself, ok? You're heavy."

House grunted again, and Foreman half dragged him to a bench.

House leaned over his bad leg, shoulders tense.

Foreman watched him, calculating.

There were pretty much three options: he could just let House keep struggling along, which would undoubtedly end badly; he could get a wheelchair and a sedative and take House back to the room, which would undoubtedly end badly; or he could get a wheelchair and let House push himself to Cuddy's office, which would undoubtedly end badly.

However, the third option had the best balance of allowing House to keep his pride, and keeping him from collapsing from the pain.

"Stay here."

House looked at him, absolutely exhausted, but still defiant.

Foreman shook his head, "I'm gonna get a wheelchair. But you can still go where you're trying to, I just don't want to have to deal with you passing out, kay?"

House watched him for a long moment, panting, then nodded and closed his eyes.

"Ok."

* * *

Foreman came back just in time to hear a nurse and several other people arguing with House that he needed to get back to his room, then the loud thump of House hitting the floor, having stood up to show how perfectly ok he was.

Foreman rushed forward, told the nurse some ruder-than-intended version of go away, and leaned over House's prone form.

"House?"

He was curled around his bad leg, obviously in agony.

Foreman sighed, shaking his head, and slipped his arm around House's shoulder, lifting him to a sitting position.

House grabbed Foreman's shirt, gasping, desperate for an anchor.

Foreman looked up, glaring at all the spectators. They stayed where they were.

He looked back down at House.

"Ok. Ok, you're ok." he said quietly, seeing the overwhelmed look in House's eyes.

Too many people, too much pain.

He looked up at the people again.

"Would you all like it if a bunch of people were staring at you when you're feeling this bad? no. GO AWAY!"

They scattered, except for Nurse Brenda, who had been standing in the back the whole time, not really staring, just watching the situation.

Foreman started to glare at her, but she rolled her eyes and pulled out a syringe, handing it to him.

Foreman took it—it was a sedative, and House still seemed panicked.

She walked around the corner.

Foreman pushed the sedative into House's arm, though he didn't use all of it.

Brenda returned, pulling a heavily padded wheelchair that looked more like a bed than a chair.

Foreman nodded his thanks, grunting as he lifted House onto it.

"Two options. I'll still get you to Cuddy's office, or I'll take you back to your room. I'm guessing you'll want the second option, 'cause I doubt you're gonna convince Cuddy of anything like this."

House nodded weakly, tears of pain starting to leak out of his eyes, as he curled some on the chair.

Foreman thanked Brenda, and untangled the IV line.


	4. Chapter 4

House slept a lot.

This was what Foreman was thinking, as he sat in the chair, bored, watching House drool onto the sterile white pillows.

The morphine wasn't high enough to cause this low of an energy level, even counting for the shifted dosage levels from the proglumide—what House was taking.

Which left a new problem, or the pain itself.

Foreman was guessing it was the pain—House hadn't been able to get out of bed since that attempt at arguing with Cuddy three days ago.

He had submitted to IV fluids because he couldn't keep anything down, but he hadn't let anybody touch him otherwise.

Foreman wrinkled his nose, frowning.

"House, wake up."

Sleepy grunt.

Foreman stood, poking House in the shoulder.

"House."

House looked blearily at him.

"What?"

"You wet your bed."

House blinked sleepily for a moment, then realized what Foreman had said, and checked himself.

"Damn...."

"Are you _sure_ you don't want a catheter?" asked Foreman, dryly.

"Yes," answered House, in a surprisingly vehement tone.

Foreman blinked.

"You'd rather wet yourself than have a catheter?" asked Foreman, rolling back the sheets.

House glared at him.

Foreman rolled his eyes, lifting House's hospital gown.

"Ok, you know, I can wipe myself, thank you very much," snapped House, making a grab for the towel, but failing to grasp it because Foreman had pulled it away and he was too weak to sit up.

"You can either let me clean you up, or you can clean yourself up, and let me—or someone else, I don't care—cath you."

House glared for a long moment, then closed his eyes, folded his arms, and sat there.

Foreman blinked.

"Ok... are you just being stubborn, or do you really hate catheters? I thought you cathed yourself, even."

"Yeah, and I got a UTI after. Really fun."

"You did it in your own bathroom."

"Which is probably way more sterile than the supply carts."

Foreman sighed, shaking his head, and made good on his threat about cleaning House himself.

House jerked, as Foreman accidentally bumped his bad leg.

Oh. Duh. Idiot. House was nervous because getting a catheter required people having elbows near his thigh. He didn't actually care about the cath, he cared about the procedure to put it in, and the fact it would have to be repeated every few days.

"Sorry."

Foreman was very careful to not bump House after that.

House opened his eyes, finally, as Foreman touched his shoulder.

"Need to change the sheets," explained Foreman.

House glanced at them.

"They're fine."

"No they're not, they'll give you diaper rash."

"Go away."

"I can't do that."

"Then at least ignore me."

"I can't ignore the smell of your pee."

House sighed, looking extremely irritated, and allowed Foreman to help him make it the two steps to the chair.

Or at least, try to make it the two steps to the chair.

As he put just a tiny bit of weight on his bad leg for the hop with his left leg, he yelled something unintelligible, and collapsed to the right, against the younger doctor.

Foreman grunted, dragging House the rest of the way to the chair.

* * *

House took a few minutes to regain awareness, and by the time he had, Foreman had finished changing the sheets, and was waiting for him to wake up.

"Here."

House looked weakly at the thing Foreman was holding. Bedpan.

"What?"

"You peed again as soon as you passed out. Can you just get it all out, before I have to deal with you and the sheets, *again*?"

House groaned, looking at the yellow liquid on the floor.

Then he snorted, faintly.

"Hah," he said, with very little humor, "Now you have to sit on my pee."

"That, or get a different chair."

House rolled his eyes, and tried to snatch the bedpan out of Foreman's hand. Unfortunately, his leg was still making him very light-headed and weak, which made him overbalance, and nearly caused him to fall out of the chair. Foreman caught his shoulders though, and handed him the pan as soon as he regained his composure.

House glared, Foreman turned around, and both sighed as Foreman heard and House saw the liquid going into the pan.

"Kay."

Foreman turned around, took the pan, and handed House a towel.

"You're letting me do it myself?"

"You peed all over yourself twice in the last fifteen minutes, I hope that's sufficient embarrassment to get you to consider a catheter."

"I have no shame."

"I noticed. Why are you arguing the side saying I should be wiping your dick right now?"

"Er... good point."

Foreman left to deal with the bedpan, then came back, and hesitated.

House glanced between him and the bed.

"That is not going to work. Which is pathetic. But it's true."

Foreman nodded.

House sighed, closing his eyes.

Then he slumped in the chair, apparently pretending to be unconscious.

Foreman stood, blinking.

House opened one eye, and rolled it.

"Just do it, already."

Foreman nodded. House closed the eye.

Foreman lifted him, grimacing when it made House tense with pain, and set him on the bed. All of this was much, much easier than it should have been.

"Ok... you either need to take some compazine and eat, or Cuddy needs to up your IV intake, you weight like one-fifty."

House looked away.

Foreman frowned.

"How long have you been too nauseous to eat enough?" asked Foreman, suspiciously.

"The problem isn't the eating, it's the not un-eating."

"How long?"

House closed his eyes, grimacing.

"Bad for two months. Started before that, maybe three," he ground out.

Foreman groaned.

"And how bad?"

silence.

"When did you go below one-seventy?"

"A month and a half ago..."

Foreman stared at him.

"How long were you planning on hiding this? I mean, you're seriously not healthy. By the sound of it, the way you were going would have killed you."

"Not like there's much left to kill," said House, bitterly.

Foreman blinked, stunned.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, slowly.

House turned to glare at him, very suddenly, very fiercely.

"What do you think I mean?!" he snapped, "Look at me! I can't work 'cause of the meds, I can't get off the meds 'cause of the pain, I can't eat 'cause of the pain, I can't go to the fricken' bathroom on my own! Wilson won't even talk to me because I happened to call him to pick me up 'cause I was drunk! Tell me, exactly what have I got that's worth sitting here, in agony, for? My job? Can't do it, too high. My friend? He can't even look at me. Sunshine and puppies? Not really my thing. What the hell do you want from me? I'm miserable. There's no point to sitting here, being miserable. I can't even go yell at Cuddy for sticking you with me. I'm pathetic, I'm miserable, and there's no point!"

Foreman had remained impassive throughout House's diatribe.

Now he took a step closer to House's bed, shaking his head.

"You're right. You're pathetic. But not 'cause you're stuck in a hospital bed. 'Cause you're wallowing in it. Since when do you give up? You're the most stubborn person I've ever met. I can't even tell you're on morphine. I'm honestly shocked that you haven't bribed some nurse to get you a wheelchair while I'm in the bathroom, so you could go yell at Cuddy without me trailing you. You can say you've given up, but you can't say it's because the situation is hopeless. You have to admit it's 'cause you're depressed and pathetic and too weak to deal."

"I'M NOT WEAK! I'M JUST TIRED!" yelled House, sitting straight up, looking seriously annoyed, "I'M TIRED OF PAIN, I'M TIRED OF FIGHTING, I'M TIRED OF SYMATHETIC LOOKS AND INTERVENTIONS AND PEOPLE TRYING TO TELL ME TO DO THIS THING OR THAT! I'M TIRED OF TRYING TO DEAL WITH MY PATHETIC, BROKEN BODY! I'M TIRED OF MY BODY LETTING ME DOWN AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN! IT TOOK NEARLY EVERYTHING, AND NOW IT'S TAKING EVEN MORE! YOU DON'T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT'S LIKE TO SIT HERE, WATCHING MY STUPID FRICKEN BODY FAIL AGAIN AND AGAIN! SO GET THE HELL OUT AND DON'T TRY TO LECTURE ME ABOUT BEING WEAK!"

Foreman grinned.

House panted at him, red in the face.

"Yeah, you've got nothing left to fight for. I so believe you now. Especially after you just *fought* for something."

House glared at him, still panting.

Then a new expression came over his face.

Foreman hadn't been expecting that expression. He had been expecting anger, or closed-off-ness, or some emotion. What turned up was.... Foreman couldn't understand why, but House looked desperate.

"Foreman." he said, voice shaking, "Page the anesthesiologist."

"Oh. Your leg?"

"No."

"What, then?"

"Just... do it."

House rolled over, ignoring the stabbing pain in his thigh, and burying his face in the pillows.

Foreman paged the anesthesiologist, and turned away from House, cleaning up the pee on the floor.

Dr. Taylor arrived, looking out of breath.

"Pain, again?"

Foreman looked up from mopping up the pee—which had actually been all mopped up for quite some time.

"No. Anxiety attack, I think."

Taylor sighed, looking relieved.

Then he blinked at Foreman.

"How-come you didn't just give him some diazepam?"

Foreman shrugged.

"He said page you and rolled over. I was arguing with him. He's angry at me. Me sedating him probably wouldn't have gone over too well."

"Ah."

Dr. Taylor pushed a sedative into House's IV line, then sighed, looking around.

"Everything else set?"

Foreman nodded.

Dr. Taylor started to leave.

He stopped, realizing the beeping of House's status box hadn't changed speed.

It should have, given how sensitive House had been to CNS depressants....

Foreman picked up the chart he had been keeping, looking for a trend in the pain and dosage lines. They both went up one day and down the next. Today should have been up.

"He didn't take the proglumide today. You can up the dose."

Dr. Taylor hesitated, but Foreman showed him the chart, and he nodded, pushing another dose.

It took effect normally.

Foreman sighed.

Taylor left.

House drifted off, after a while.

Foreman let him sleep.

* * *

A few hours later, House groaned, shoulders tensing.

"You awake?"

House nodded, silently.

"You sulking?"

House shook his head.

"You gonna puke?"

House nodded.

Foreman got the emesis basin again and pushed some compazine.

House heaved painfully, but brought nothing up. That went on for about five minutes before Foreman went to refill the water pitcher.

When he came back, House was obviously in a lot of pain, each heave making him shift his bad leg, making his muscles tense involuntarily.

His hands were gripping the bedsheets, apparently trying to hold himself still.

Foreman set the water on the bed tray, pushed another unit of compazine, and hesitated. House was clenching more and more with each movement. Foreman did *not* want a repeat of the heartrate scare. But he also didn't want a repeat of the fight and argument over the towel, earlier.

"House?" he asked, still hesitating, "You gonna snap at me if I touch you?"

House closed his eyes.

Foreman wasn't sure what that meant.

House shook his head.

Foreman stepped towards the bed, bracing House with one hand on his shoulder, one hand on his hip.

It seemed to help immediately.

House eventually managed to stop, panting, completely exhausted.

Foreman waited.

House didn't tell him to let go, and if Foreman did, he knew it would make House roll a little, which would undoubtedly hurt the older diagnostician.

"House?" he asked after maybe ten minutes.

House's eyelids fluttered open briefly, but he didn't seem to be able to make them stay that way.

"Do you want me to let go?"

No answer.

"House, are you conscious?"

Another eyelid flutter.

Foreman sighed, resigning himself to wait.

Twenty minutes later House finally opened his eyes a little, still looking exhausted.

"'s kay..." he mumbled, "Leggo...."

Foreman did.

House screamed.

And again.

And then he curled up into a tight, trembling ball, whimpering and crying.

Foreman swallowed, unnerved, and paged Taylor again.

The variability of the pain level was the main problem. It went from almost ignorable to scream provoking in two seconds.

Taylor arrived in less than a minute, having apparently been about to check on House.

This was getting old, thought Foreman, as he talked House into relaxing, just a little, so Taylor could get the needle in his spine; House couldn't take many more repetitions of this.

Taylor started to leave.

"Hang on. I need to talk to you about something."

Taylor stopped, waiting at the door.

Foreman waited until House stopped crying, then followed Taylor out into the hall.

"Can you leave the epidural kit in here? I know how to do it, and it'd be better if I didn't have to page you every time he has breakthrough pain."

Dr. Taylor nodded, "I see no problem there. Just keep a record of how much you give him, and when."

Foreman nodded—he was already keeping a chart.

"Here. It's got enough for three doses."

"Thanks."

Taylor's pager went off, and he left in a hurry.

Foreman walked back into House's room, set the kit on the table, and watched House slowly calm.

He didn't relax all the way, even though he fell asleep.

Foreman watched him for a while, then sighed, shook his head, and closed his eyes. House might sleep a lot, but Foreman spent a lot of the time he would usually spend resting watching House.


	5. Chapter 5

Note: hospitals don't usually use straight razors. but i watched sweeny todd the night before i wrote this chapter, so....

The next day, Foreman woke with a start, to find House arguing loudly with a nurse, who was holding a bedpan away, a catheter kit in his other hand.

"Foreman!" yelled House, angry, "I told you no!"

"I didn't have anything to do with whatever this is. I've been asleep since Taylor left."

House glared at him for a moment, then went back to yelling at the nurse, who was obviously intimidated, but kept repeating that it was what he was supposed to do.

Foreman listened for a while, then decided that neither of them were ever going to convince the other of anything, and paged Evil Nurse Brenda, who could at least come up with an argument other than 'but I'm supposed to'.

She arrived, looking very irritated.

"House! Stop terrorizing my staff!"

"_He_'s terrorizing _me_! I don't need a goddammed catheter, I just need to pee! Just 'cause I can't get to the bathroom doesn't mean I'm incontinent!"

Brenda looked between the two for a moment, then sighed, turning to the nurse.

"Who told you to give Dr. House a catheter?"

"Dr. Cuddy."

"Did she say why?"

"She said it was because he was too stubborn for his own good and that he needed to stop fighting everything."

Brenda sighed.

"Give me the catheter. And the bedpan."

"But--"

"Tell Dr. Cuddy I said I'd do it."

the guy nodded, leaving.

Brenda turned to House.

House folded his arms and glared at her.

Brenda glared right back, until House had to look away, grimacing, and shift his bad leg into a different position with both hands.

Brenda looked at Foreman.

"Have there been problems without a catheter?"

"Not since he started actually using the pan."

"Ok. I'll talk to Cuddy. She probably heard something about the thing with the sheets two days ago, must have thought it was still going on."

"She would have known it wasn't if she had bothered coming out of her stupid hole and actually looked at her patient here," snapped House.

"Yeah, you're one to talk," replied Brenda evenly, handing House the bedpan.

Foreman thanked her, and she left, taking the catheter kit with her.

House put the pan under the sheets, a relived look appearing on his face.

Foreman looked at his phone, checking the messages people had left.

"The kids want to know if they can visit."

House grunted, putting the bedpan on the table, folding his arms, and closing his eyes.

Foreman sighed, irritated.

"Look, will you stop sulking already? I'm aware that this sucks, I'm aware that you hate the situation, and I hate it too. But sulking isn't going to make it more pleasant for either of us. And before you say it, it won't make me go away, because I _can't _go away."

House glared at him.

"And having them see me like this is really going to improve matters?"

Foreman blinked.

"Why do you care if they see you like this? Your leg hurts, they know that. You're in a hospital gown, they know that. They're not gonna peek under the sheets or anything, they just want to say hi."

"I don't want them seeing me being this pathetic."

"You're only pathetic because you're sulking. We've been over this."

"I can't get two steps away from the bed _with help_ without _fainting_. That's _pathetic_."

Foreman sighed, shaking his head.

House wrinkled his nose.

"You gonna empty that, or what?"

Foreman glared, getting up to take the bedpan out of the room.

He stopped, as he saw the color of the urine it contained.

"House... your pee is brown."

House looked at him wearily.

"What did you expect? Muscle degeneration, remember?"

"It wasn't brown earlier."

"It's on and off."

Foreman frowned.

"On and off for how long?"

House shrugged, the morning's exertions beginning to catch up with him.

"Maybe two or three months. More often after the crash."

Foreman stared at him.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because I already knew what was going on. The pain was getting worse because it's been getting worse since the beginning. It was better, after the ketamine, but as soon as it started to atrophy, it got worse faster than ever. And about three times as fast after the crash, 'cause I was having trouble using it, and Wilson wasn't there to drag me to PT. More pain, less use, more atrophy, more pain. That's just how it goes."

Foreman sighed, a little unhappy about House's defeated tone, and went to empty the bedpan.

* * *

Foreman looked up from typing on his laptop, as he heard a small, quiet whimper.

House was on his side, back facing Foreman.

Foreman got up, and walked around the bed.

"House?" he asked, glancing at the status box. Nothing was abnormal, House's heartrate was a little high, but only by a little bit, and that was the only thing different.

House looked like he was asleep.

Foreman watched him for a moment, seeing House's eyes moving beneath the lids. House was dreaming, apparently.

He mumbled something, a protest.

Then another whimper.

The beeping of the status box increased a little bit.

"House?" asked Foreman again, shaking House's shoulder, "House, wake up. You're having a bad dream."

House didn't react, other to whimper again, louder this time.

Foreman shook him again, more vigorously.

House made a sort of whining sound in the back of his throat, and opened his eyes.

"House?"

"Owww...."

Foreman reached for the morphine controls, but House's hand gripped his wrist, stopping him.

"'sok. Don't need. Just dream."

Foreman sighed, shaking his head, and sat back down in the chair. His hand brushed House's shoulder as he moved, and he stopped, putting it full on House's arm.

House was pretty warm.

He put his hand on House's forehead, ignoring it when the older doctor tried weakly to push him away.

"You've got a fever, House." he said, frowning.

House looked at him, wearily.

"So?"

Foreman shrugged and sat down

A fever itself wasn't a big deal, but it meant that House's body wasn't taking the stress of the pain very well.

* * *

Chase came over and sat down next to Foreman, as he waited outside House's room for Cuddy and the ortho surgeon to finish talking to him.

"I heard he's not doing so good."

Foreman sighed, nodded.

"He can barely move without needing an epidural. And he's got a fever, just from the pain, as far as I can tell."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

"Cameron's all worried. I told her he'd be ok in the long run. You think it's true?"

"I don't know. It's pretty bad."

"Course, if he just let Cuddy chop it off, he wouldn't have the problem."

"Yeah, but what are the chances of that?"

Chase shrugged, "Whatever they were before, they're probably rising now."

"Yeah... but still...."

"True."

"He peed all over the bed."

"Seriously?"

"And the floor. 'Cause he was too scared of somebody bumping his leg to get a catheter."

Chase whistled.

Cuddy came out, shaking her head when Foreman and Chase looked at her.

"He says he wants to talk to me after Harkson leaves, but I doubt it's to do anything productive."

Foreman sighed, Chase nodded.

About fifteen minutes later, Harkson came out, looking upset.

"Did he say something?" asked Cuddy, frowning.

Harkson sighed, shaking his head.

"No... it's just... I've met him before. He seems...." he trailed off, shaking his head, and walked towards the elevators.

"Cuddy!" came a rasping voice from House's room, and her pager buzzed.

"I guess he still wants to talk to me," she muttered.

Foreman and Chase shrugged, and Cuddy got up and went into House's room.

Five minutes later, Cuddy poked her head out, looking pale.

"Foreman."

"What?"

"You need to come."

He got up with a glance at Chase, and followed Cuddy inside the room.

House was curled into a fetal position, trembling.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," grunted House.

"I don't know," said Cuddy.

Foreman walked around, taking a syringe and inserting it to pull some morphine out of the IV.

House stopped him though, looking serious but weak.

"Not done talking," he rasped.

Foreman glanced at Cuddy. She shrugged.

"He told me to get you."

Foreman looked back down at House.

"No way, House. There is no way I am participating in the discussion. You're hard enough to deal with when you *don't* blame me for anything."

"No... not that... just... hear... kay...." House was panting now, and Foreman eyed the heartrate monitor nervously. It was only 124, so he didn't interfere.

"Whatever."

"Ok, House, what were you saying?" asked Cuddy, blinking as Foreman got an epidural needle ready—just in case.

House finished telling her that he wasn't ever going to consent, screamed, and passed out.

Foreman gave him the epidural in case he woke up before the pain subsided, and nodded to Cuddy.

She left, looking stunned.

Five minutes later, she came back, and asked Foreman to check House's thyroid numbers.

He stared at her, started to object, and had to turn away to deal with House puking.

By the time House managed to stop, Cuddy was gone, and Foreman was irritated.

House lay there, eyes only open a little bit, panting, pale, shaking, obviously exhausted.

He had been exhausted before Cuddy came in. He had been in pain, and upset, and miserable. Foreman knew how it felt to be desperate for an end to the pain. But House wouldn't take it. Why?

"Why don't you want them to amputate?"

"Go away."

Foreman snorted.

"It's not like it'll be any worse than it is now. You'll eventually be able to walk."

"S' well above the knee."

"So? Cuddy'd probably pay for it herself if it got you off the vicodin and out of this hospital bed."

"It's so far above the knee that's it wouldn't necessarily be practical to get a prosthetic. No leverage. It'd double the energy expense, at the very least."

A long pause.

"Oh. That's a good reason. But it's still stupid. Tell me this isn't ten times worse than no prosthetic. You can't even sit up."

Another long pause.

"When I was a kid, my dad got shot. I spent a while hanging out in the military hospital. A lot of the people there had lost limbs, and it was a good while ago, so more of them couldn't get prosthetics than today. The ones who didn't... or who were borderline, having a lot of difficulty using them, not only had a lot harder time themselves, but the way people looked at them was way different. It was like that made them a lot less whole than the other way around. The other way around is hard enough. If I was sure I'd be able to use a prosthetic, I would do it, but it's more likely that I won't. Not without constantly exhausting myself."

Foreman was silent for a while.

"That makes sense. Would it have killed you to explain that years ago?"

House shrugged, "I explained, nobody listened."

Foreman blinked.

"Why not?"

"I guess they were all a little distracted with the whole 'me on the verge of dying of my own bull-headedness' thing."

Foreman snorted.

House grimaced.

Foreman frowned. House had a nerve block right now, he shouldn't be feeling anything. Even if it was wearing off, the pain would have to be severe for it to get through.

"You take it today?

House nodded, beginning to really feel some pain again.

"Yeah."

Foreman got up.

House swallowed, trying to move to another position on the bed.

He was forced to stop, panting, face draining of all color.

"House?"

"Ow... it... ow... agh... ow...."

"You're feeling that much pain *through* a spinal block?" asked Foreman, incredulously.

House shrugged, scrunching his eyes shut.

Foreman sighed, as House started to calm again, after a few minutes of pain.

"Idiot."

House opened his eyes, looking at Foreman.

"No. just stubborn."

"Fine. Stubborn idiot. Still an idiot."

House looked like he was struggling to stay awake.

"Yeah, well... since when do you care, any—AGH!"

Foreman bolted to his feet, instinctively grabbing House's shoulders, keeping him still.

"House, listen, can you give me a number? How bad is it?"

House, panting so rapidly and shallowly it looked like he wasn't breathing, didn't even manage a whimper.

Foreman turned his head, yelling for a nurse, then gripped tighter, as House grasped weakly at his arm, trying to hold on to something.

"Calm down, it's ok, it's gonna be ok, listen to me, it's ok, alright? House, look at me. Look here, ok? It's gonna be ok. The block's probably just wearing off, ok?"

House was looking at him, completely desperate.

Foreman nodded, in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, unsure what the hell he was doing, and looked at the nurse.

"Page Dr. Taylor."

She turned around, looking at Taylor, who had followed the yell.

"What happened?" he asked, dumfounded. There was no way anyone should be feeling that much pain through a spinal block. They shouldn't feel *any* pain through a spinal block.

"Nothing. He was in a bit of pain through the block earlier, I thought it might be wearing off, then he was talking, and it was suddenly like this."

Taylor nodded, looking at the nurse and asking her to get several kinds of painkillers and anaesthesia.

She nodded, and hurried away.

House didn't seem to be capable of looking at anything that wasn't straight above him—Foreman.

"Dr. House, can you answer me?" asked Taylor, snapping on a pair of gloves.

"Ah...." was the single, weak, almost inaudible response.

Taylor frowned, reaching for the anesthesia needle the nurse had brought.

House knocked his hand, clumsily, weakly, as he tried to insert it.

"Dr. House, I promise, all I'm going to do is put you out. Nobody will do anything--"

"C... uh...."

Foreman grimaced.

Then he blinked.

"You wanted me to hear you talking to Cuddy for a reason. You wanted me to stand up for your argument. That's why you actually answered my questions over the last week."

House nodded weakly, beginning to really lose hold.

"Let the guy put you out. I'll do what you want me to, ok?"

House met his eyes for as long as he could, then nodded again, barely visible.

Foreman looked at Taylor, who injected the sedative.

As House lay there, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier by the second, he managed to get out two words.

Don't leave.

House took only a few moments after that to close his eyes and drop his head into the pillows, unconscious.

Foreman started down at him, completely confused by his final sentence.

Then it hit him, like a lead brick.

This whole time, the entire last two weeks, House had neglected to make any actual effort to get Foreman out of the room. His attempt to get to Cuddy's office was the only action he had actually taken, and for all Foreman knew, he might just have wanted to get up and used that as an excuse.

House wanted him there.

* * *

Foreman entered Cuddy's office, looking at her accusingly.

"You've been planing this from the beginning, haven't you? That's why you made me sit in there all the time. That's why you haven't been visiting."

"Er... what?"

"You've been trying to get House to get along with me, so if you have to give you the go-ahead, he'll still have something left."

She sighed, finally closing the file she had been looking through.

"Yes."

A long silence.

"Ok."

Cuddy blinked.

"That's it? Just ok?"

Foreman shrugged.

"I'd rather he have something left. Him not having something left would probably end very badly."

* * *

Wilson swallowed, standing outside the door of his... of House's room.

Foreman was sitting in there, holding House's hand and looking completely guilty about doing it.

What the hell was he doing? House hadn't meant for anything to happen to Amber...

But... who else was there to blame?

The answer was obvious, but so uncomfortable Wilson didn't allow himself to see it—if he had been home, he would have been the one on the bus with House.

He shook his head to himself, walking away.

Two days later....

Cuddy stared at Foreman, as he stood there, arms crossed, refusing to let her touch House.

"This is pathetic and stupid. He's unconscious. He's not gonna care if you object or not."

"That's not the point."

Cuddy blinked.

"Then what is?"

"_I_'ll know if I object or not."

Cuddy sighed, lowering the needle to her side.

Foreman snorted, "You do realize that I've worked for House for over four years, right? That lame of a trick is _not_ gonna work on me."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, looking frustrated.

The standoff lasted another five minutes, before Cuddy finally sighed, shook her head, and left.

Foreman sat down, running his hands over his head.

Huh. He hadn't been near a razor in a while.

He looked at House.

The perpetual stubble had lengthened into an actual beard. The last time that had happened, House had got all fidgety and uncomfortable. He said it itched like that.

Foreman looked around, almost furtively.

He paged a nurse, and asked her to get a shaving kit.

She smiled and left.

By the time she came back, Foreman had realized that doing this would actually end with House being clean-shaven, since there was no real way to cut the hairs to a short length with the hospital razors. He had never_ seen_ House clean-shaven.

He stood there with the razor in one hand, the can of shaving cream in the other. he found it oddly difficult to move forward with the task at hand.

House was vulnerable enough, unconscious and sedated, that doing this seemed... wrong.

But when else was he going to have the opportunity?

Foreman sighed, and spritzed the shaving cream over House's lower face.

It didn't take long, given he had a very cooperative... patient? Did this really count as a medical procedure? House didn't know what was going on, and he certainly didn't care that his stubble was longer than usual. Which meant he wasn't in any discomfort, and the only reason Foreman was doing this was... for Foreman? Which meant it wasn't a medical procedure, it wasn't even a comfort procedure. It was... he didn't know what to call it.

Then why was he doing it? If House couldn't care either way, why was Foreman bothering? Was it just something to do? Was he just curious about what House looked like with no stubble? Or was it something... else. Was it because it was something people did for people they cared for, when the people they cared for were in situations like this? Did he... care... about House?

Foreman flicked the last of the suds into the basin, and wiped a soft towel over the lower half of House's face, drying the now-smooth skin.

House looked... he looked a lot younger like this. He looked almost... the word was absurd when applied to House, but still... he looked almost a little innocent. He looked open. Not friendly, exactly, just... open.

Foreman shook his head, realizing that he had been staring at House for over ten minutes.

* * *

Cuddy, standing just outside the door to House's hospital room, smiled a little, watching Foreman flick the suds into a basin, gently run the razor up House's neck, over his chin. The last time someone other than House had shaved House had been during the infarction. House's hands had been shaking too badly from the pain, and he had finally asked Stacy to get an electric razor so she could do it for him. She had had some trouble doing it, having never had much experience in the area of shaving mens' faces, House had eventually snapped at her, and he had spent the rest of the week sitting there with half his face shaved in slightly wavy rows, the other half not at all.

This was different.

This was a lot nicer to watch.

* * *

As Foreman turned a day later to go get a coffee, the alarm on House's status box went off, and his heartrate skyrocketed.

Foreman turned back around, Cuddy, who had been hovering near the door, worried, grabbed a nearby crash cart, and together they shocked House four times.

The tachycardia ended.

They looked at each other.

Foreman nodded, silently.

He had argued House's point. He had stood up for it. But he wasn't going to let House die because of it.


	6. Chapter 6

Note: anyone who watches Bones as well as House will know that it's possible to estimate a person's height from the length of their femur. I dug up that equation and reversed it (and i said algebra would never come in handy!) to find the length of Hugh's femur. For anyone who wants to know, Hugh's femur would be approx. 21.5 inches long. The abductor magnus, and the abductor longus are soft tissue hip stabilizers. there's a third one, but it has much less leverage.

House groaned, opening his eyes.

That was wrong. He shouldn't feel this little pain.

He raised his head a little off the pillows.

A shock ran through his body, and he nearly passed out.

His right leg was... gone. Completely gone. Just a short—too short—stump remained.

He looked around the room.

Foreman and Cuddy were there.

Cuddy was asleep, she looked completely worn out.

Foreman was just standing there, looking every bit as tired as Cuddy, but with the willpower to fight off the exhaustion.

"Hey," said Foreman, and House could hear how hoarse his voice was. They must have been up since he had gone into surgery, at the very least.

"What happened?"

Foreman handed him his chart.

"You went into severe tachycardia. Cuddy overruled me, I'm sorry." it wasn't quite true, but Cuddy said it would have happened if he hadn't said yes right then.

House shook his head.

He was angry. Very, very angry. But he had known, in the back of his head, that this would happen. He had accepted it. He hadn't been at all ready for it, nobody could ever be ready for this... but he had known Cuddy would eventually have no other choice.

He would eventually forgive her, he knew that. But that didn't mean he wasn't angry right now.

Though, angry at Cuddy was one thing. Angry at Foreman was another. He wasn't angry. He had known, not even in the back of his head, right up front in fact, that Foreman would eventually be overruled. And that he wasn't angry about. He was the one who had put Foreman in that position to begin with, and he wasn't angry that he had been pushed out of it by someone else. He might be a little pissed up front, but he did know he wasn't truly angry.

"How bad's the pain?" asked Cuddy, waking up.

He shrugged tiredly, "Better. How much?"

"Twelve and a half inches," answered Foreman.

House paused, doing some quick figuring in his head.

"That's about nine inches left. Which is above the abductor magnus, and the abductor longus. Great. Just great."

Foreman sighed, nodding.

Cuddy, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, nodded as well.

House coughed a little, frowning.

Foreman put his stethoscope in his ears, leaning over his boss/employee. Coworker. Possibly something else.

"You should probably sit up. Got some stuff in your lungs."

House groaned, working his upper body more towards upright. He stopped, however, falling back against the pillows.

Foreman frowned, "pain?"

House shook his head tiredly.

"Just... weak."

Foreman hesitated, but House rolled his eyes.

Cuddy stared, eyes wide, as House let Foreman help him sit up.

House groaned though, as blood rushed to the stump, making the swelling rise a little under the tight bandages.

Foreman let him back down, and he sighed, coughing again.

"Well this sucks," commented House, dryly.

"No kidding," replied Foreman, checking the bandages.

House didn't object.

Cuddy handed House the surgeon's report.

"Here. I know you'll want this sooner or later. Foreman, Chase and Taub were all in there."

House glared at her.

"Why'd you let Taub in there?"

"Because he's a very good skin surgeon," she replied, rolling her eyes.

House rolled his as well, reaching up to rub his chin.

He frowned, then, looking at the date on the surgeon's report.

That didn't make sense. If they had shaved him for surgery, the stubble should be shorter. If they hadn't shave him at all, it should be longer. This was like someone had shaved him the day before the surgery.

"Who shaved me?" he asked, looking slightly pissed.

"Me. It was getting pretty long. It looked weird," said Foreman, flatly.

House seemed to accept that.

"You're not gonna yell at me?" asked Foreman, confused. Why wasn't house angry? About the shaving, or the surgery?

House shrugged.

They both seemed to have forgotten Cuddy was there.

Cuddy was pretty sure that was a good thing—not because she didn't want to talk to him, but because House was completely focused on his interaction with Foreman and visa-versa.

House being completely focused on interacting with another human being was definitely a good thing, especially now.

She hoped it continued long enough to get him through the weeks and months to come.

* * *

A week later....

House grunted, lowering himself onto the bench. It had been a long time since he had used crutches, he didn't remember it being this exhausting.

Then again, last time the 'illness' preceding the surgery hadn't lasted three months, and he had weighed more than 162 pounds—with his leg.

He sighed, and rested his head back against the wall.

* * *

He wasn't exactly sure what had happened between sitting down and opening his eyes on a darkened hallway, with Foreman standing next to the bench, shaking his shoulder.

"I'm awake."

"Then get up. You've been here for two hours."

House groaned, sitting up straight.

Foreman handed him the crutches

House stood, frowned, got one arm over a crutch, swayed, and almost fell. He would have actually fallen, but Foreman grabbed him by the shoulders.

He ended up leaning hard on Foreman.

"House, you awake?" asked Foreman, raising one eyebrow as House just stood there, leaning against him.

"Yeah." mumbled House, "'m'wake..."

Foreman frowned, pushing a little bit on House's shoulder. Either House was exhausted or he had a fever. Or he had suddenly decided he liked cuddling. In that order of likelihood.

"House," said Foreman, pushing harder, "Come on, get off so I can move without you falling."

House finally pulled away, and Foreman could see by his expression how exhausted he was.

"Come on," he said, less irritated, "let's get you back to your room."

House barely managed to stay awake on the way there, and Foreman ended up having to lift him onto the bed.

He fell asleep almost instantly, lying on the bleached sterile sheets, his left leg curled around the stump of his right.

Foreman sighed, leaning on the railing on the edge of House's bed with both hands as he watched the older doctor sleep.

House would have to be a lot stronger physically if he was going to use a prosthetic, there was just no way around it.

He sighed, shaking his head.

House had been an idiot to let it go so long. All he had done was extend the recovery time, probably by months....

But... he had been scared, and he had been clinging to hope, just like any other patient. so why had Foreman let him do it? He could only come up with one answer to that. He had been acting as House's... friend?... rather than his doctor. Cuddy had known from the start that something would happen between him and House, so why had they let it go on so long? She should have known he wouldn't be objective, hell she had caused it. So why hadn't she countered it by actually acting as House's doctor?

* * *

"Cuddy."

Cuddy looked up from her papers.

"Yes?"

"You should have forced the surgery. You should have been his doctor. You weren't. You didn't even look at his chart that whole time."

She met his eyes, calmly.

"By all normal measures, yes, I should have. But his body will heal. He still hasn't gotten over the fact that there was a possibility he would have survived the infarction without the surgery. It's been twelve years, and he still isn't over that. Wilson not talking to him is hard enough. I was worried that if it happened again, he might lose all trust in anyone around him. The tiny bit he's grown since we all met him would be shattered, and I was worried that it might well take the rest of him along with it. His body will heal. His mind might not have."

Foreman sighed.

"And what if his body doesn't heal? He can't make it to the end of the hall on crutches, he's too weak. What if he never recovers from that?"

"Then he'll still have his mind. He won't have lost both. I think you'll agree that he always cared more for the second."

* * *

House sighed, yawning as he sat on the bed, bored.

"House?" asked Foreman, sitting down on the chair next to the older doctor's bed.

House looked at him, raising the head of his bed so he was actually sitting up.

"Cuddy wants to discharge you."

House hesitated.

"Why are you the one telling me this?"

"Because Cuddy says someone has to stay with you till she's satisfied that you're ok. Since Wilson's still not even talking to you, she defaulted to me."

"Oh. Whatever."

Foreman blinked. then he smiled a little to himself.

"What are you grinning about?!" snapped House, glaring at him.

Foreman just shook his head, still smirking.

House glared at him for a few more moments, then huffed and folded his arms, looking away.

Foreman snorted, rolling his eyes.

"I packed your stuff, House," said Cuddy, coming in with a bag of clothes and books.

House glared tiredly at her, and she smiled. House had been producing a disturbingly small number of glares since the surgery.

"Here." She handed the bag to Foreman, patted House briefly on the arm, and left.

House watched her go, looking... ok. He was ready to leave the hospital, get back to his life, at least partially.

Foreman handed him the bag, turning to collect his own stuff. There was a surprising amount of it there, having accumulated over the past month. Had he really been around House 24/7 for an entire month? He would have thought he would be a lot sicker of it if he had... but that was _how_ long it had been. and, more surprisingly still, House didn't seem to mind either.

He took House's bag for him, while the older doctor got himself situated with the crutches, then held it out.

House shook his head, so Foreman slung it over his shoulder, carrying it as he and House made their slow way to the exit—Kutner had volunteered to get Foreman's car and bring it up front.

* * *

House groaned when they reached the car and he saw Kutner there, staring at him.

"What?!" he snapped at the young duckling, "Yeah, it's gone! what were you expecting?!"

Kutner fled.

House sighed.

Foreman rolled his eyes, getting in the driver's side.

House awkwardly lowered himself into the passengers seat, sighing as he sat down.

He tossed the crutches in the back with his and Foreman's bags, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes.

"House."

He looked at Foreman.

"Your pant leg is stuck in the car door."

House looked.

It was.

He sighed, opening the door and pulling it out.

Foreman pulled away from the curb, sighing as they got out of sight of the hospital.

As he reached a stoplight, something occurred to him—something obvious and important.

"Where am I going? your place or mine?"

House glanced at him, then looked back at the road.

"I don't..." House sighed, "I don't want to look at my bowling ball."

Foreman blinked for a moment. Then he realized House was actually upset.

"Ok," he said quietly, and turned left to go to his own apartment.

As House hopped up the steps to the entrance of Foreman's apartment building, Foreman realized another issue. He only had one bed, and his couch was lumpy. One of them was going to sleep on it, and he didn't mind, but it was just weird thinking of House sleeping on his bed.

Weird in a kind of... nice... way.

Hmm, he probably needed to get more sleep, if he was thinking that having to be in forced proximity to House for yet more time was 'nice' in any way.

He sighed, sitting down next to House on the couch and handing the older doctor a plate of food.

House looked briefly at him, then took the plate and looked away.

He didn't like this awkward silence any more than he liked the cold he could feel brewing in his chest.

Foreman sighed, handing him a remote.

"Stop being all quiet. It's freaking me out."

House smirked, taking it.


	7. Chapter 7

Foreman grunted, lifting House's arm over his shoulder.

House groaned lightly, opening his eyes.

"What happened? Why'm I lightheaded?"

"You've got a fever. You passed out. I'm taking you back to the hospital."

House groaned again.

* * *

Foreman sighed, standing in the doorway of House's hospital room.

House was on the bed, slightly flushed, sleeping fitfully and mumbling Wilson and Amber's names every few minutes.

He looked at his watch.

It was ten AM.

Yeah, he could wake House up now.

He walked in, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking House's shoulder.

A mumbled apology was the only response.

He sighed, shaking the shoulder harder.

A low cry.

Foreman got up, going to get some water.

House yelled, as his dream shifted from amber and Wilson floating away on a sea of ice, to someone holding his head in the cold icy water, he couldn't get away, it was cold, something was around his middle, his leg hurt, he was dizzy, so cold, he was falling, down, down into the deep, deep water, with amber and Wilson above, growing farther and farther away, he couldn't stand it, Amber had to stay because Wilson was happy and without her he would be miserable and House would lose him and he called out again and again, begging them to come back and stay and fish him out of the water and asking over and over for Dad to let him up and his chest was getting tight and a piece of ice was slowly working its way into it and he couldn't breathe and he called for Foreman, not because he was there but because he needed him and he couldn't breathe and he needed to see Foreman and he sat bolt upright, gasping for air on a hospital bed, a cold stethoscope bell being pressed to his chest by a dark, wet hand, a glass of water on the table next to the bed.

He stared at Foreman.

Foreman sighed, removing the bell.

"Your lungs are still clogged up. I'm worried you might have pneumonia."

House stared at Foreman.

Foreman tilted his head.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

House nodded, closing his eyes, then opening them.

Foreman had never been a part of his nightmares before, there had never been anyone he thought could help him in them. So why had he called for him? Did he... trust Foreman, just a little?

Foreman put his hand on House's shoulder, shaking it, worried.

"Hey! You there, big guy?"

House looked at him.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes, "disoriented."

Foreman nodded.

After a nightmare like the one House had so obviously been having, anyone would have been disoriented.

"Right. You should be up, it's after ten, and you're obviously not getting much rest even in your sleep. Also, I want to get a chest x-ray, make sure you're just getting a cold, not something worse."

House nodded, and Foreman got up to get the crutches.

House frowned.

Why were the crutches way over there, across the room?

He should have yelled at Foreman for putting them out of his reach last night, why hadn't he?

The answer was obvious.

He hadn't even considered the possibility that Foreman wouldn't be there, ready to help, when he woke up.

That wasn't like him at all.

But... was it a good assumption? Was it actually... true?

Foreman sighed, as House hesitated.

"You ok?"

House looked at him, silently.

Foreman rolled his eyes, simply and efficiently pulling House's right arm over his shoulders and helping him off the overly high hospital bed.

House swayed, blinking.

Foreman frowned.

"Hey, are you ok? House?"

House closed his eyes, slumping in Foreman's grip.

Two seconds later, he was back on the bed with a flashlight in his eyes and a stethoscope pressed to his chest.

He groaned.

"House!"

He opened his eyes.

"Hey, what happened?"

He blinked slowly, rubbing his chin.

"House?"

"Just... weak. Lightheaded."

Foreman sighed.

"Yeah, I got that. I'm gonna go get a wheelchair, don't want you passing out again halfway to radiology."

House nodded, hand pressed to his forehead.

Foreman hesitated.

"You got a headache?"

"Yeah."

"Dizzy?"

"No, just hurts."

"Ok."

Foreman touched his shoulder briefly, then left the room.

House sat up, frowning.

Huh. Foreman actually did care.

* * *

Foreman blinked, as he nearly ran into a man coming the opposite direction.

John House frowned.

"Don't you work for Greg?" he asked, frowning.

Foreman nodded.

"Yeah. His room's right down the hall on the left."

John nodded, heading in that direction.

"Uh, just so you know, he's gotta go down to radiology in a few minutes."

"Oh. right."

* * *

Foreman sighed, hand on the door to House's room.

The blinds were closed, so he was guessing House was talking with John.

He frowned, as a shout came through the closed glass door.

"You're pathetic! You couldn't handle the pain so you chopped off your leg?! What kind of pathetic moron are you?!"

Foreman heard no reply.

"Don't you dare ignore me! Do you have any idea what you have to look forward to now!? You're going to be miserable!"

No answer.

"Answer me!"

Foreman heard a slap from inside the room and yanked the door open.

"What the hell is going on in here?!"

House was looking away, a bright red splotch on his cheek.

John turned around.

He looked angry.

"Ok, you know what? He is sick, in pain, and can barely sit up. I don't know what's going on, but it's obviously not helping anyone. Either get out, or leave him alone."

John walked out past him, knocking shoulders hard as he passed.

Foreman stared after him for a minute, then looked back at House.

"What was that?"

House shrugged, still not looking at him.

Foreman sighed.

"Ok, fine, I'll forget about it. Gonna get in this thing or are you expecting me to carry you down two floors?"

House snorted, finally looking at him.

Foreman ended up helping him out of the bed and into the chair.

He walked next to the wheelchair on the way towards the elevator.

House sighed, coughing lightly as the doors to the elevator closed him.

"That was him being him. That's how he's always been. says what he thinks, doesn't care if anyone else agrees with him, doesn't care if he hurts anyone."

Foreman blinked.

"Wow, that sounds really... familiar...."

House looked wearily up at him.

"I don't try to destroy people's lives just to prove I'm right."

Foreman looked down at him.

House looked away.

Foreman shrugged to himself, looking back up at the lights indicating which floor they were on.

It lit the second floor light, and the door slid open.

House wheeled himself out of the elevator, going as fast as he could.

Foreman walked after him, slowly, letting him be alone for a while, letting him have some space.

He frowned and rushed forward, however, as he heard the sound of violent coughing from around the corner.

He sped around to find House stopped in the middle of the hallway, leaning forward, coughing hard and gasping for air.

Foreman gripped his shoulders, squatting in front of the chair.

House opened his eyes.

Foreman sighed, shaking his head.

"Ok, let's get you on some oxygen. Pretty sure it's not just a cold though."

House nodded, starting to get really light headed.

Foreman hurried across the hall, retrieving an oxygen tank from a crash cart and placing the mask over House's mouth and nose.

"Ok? Think you can handle the x-ray?"

House nodded, lifting his hand to hold the mask on himself.

Foreman ended up pushing him to the room, helping him onto the table, and carefully putting the strap around his head so the oxygen mask would stay put without House having to hold it.

"Ok, stay as still as you can... good."

Foreman came back over, just in time to pull House up as he started coughing even harder and barely getting any air.

He ended up with his arms around House's chest, holding him up as he gasped into the younger doctor's shoulder.

House's breathing eventually calmed, and he lifted his head off Foreman's shoulder a little.

Foreman sighed, starting to let go but stopping as House's hand gripped his arm.

"What?"

House reached up, lifting the mask.

"Too weak," he mumbled, "I'll fall off."

Foreman sighed, nodding, pulling House's arm over his shoulders, and basically lifting House off the table and into the wheelchair.

House just sat there, breathing heavily and pressing the mask tight to his face, barely managing to keep himself in the chair.

Foreman sighed, pushing the wheelchair out of the room.

* * *

By the time the x-ray came back, Foreman was pretty much expecting what they found—fluid build up in the entire left lung.

"Looks bacterial. we should get you on antibiotics."

House nodded, coughing, eyes half closed.

Foreman sighed, watching House lie in the bed, flushed and shivering, the oxygen mask over his face, the blankets flat on most of the lower right quarter of the bed.

He could see John House standing outside the room, looking upset.

Foreman finally walked over, sliding the door open.

"Just don't yell or slap him again."

John nodded, following him in.

He placed his hand on House's shoulder, rubbing it gently.

"He's sicker than he was earlier."

Foreman nodded.

"It looks like he picked up pneumonia. Probably during the surgery."

John sighed, leaning over his son and carefully brushing the sweat-soaked curls off Greg's forehead.

"I'm sorry Greg," he said, "I shouldn't have slapped you."

House's eyelids flickered a little.

John sighed, continuing to run his hand though House's hair.

Foreman sat down in a chair, picking up his book and listening with only half an ear as John talk quietly to House, using reassuring words and a gentle tone.

About half an hour later, House started mumbling in his sleep, tossing and turning on the bed.

Foreman stood up, placing his hand on House's forehead.

John looked at him, worried.

He sighed, shaking his head.

"It's the fever. I'm gonna get an antipyretic, help lower it."

John nodded, looking back down at his son.

"No... please, no more... let me out... stop... Dad, no...please...."

Foreman stopped.

John looked at him.

Foreman met his eyes.

"Out."

John nodded, leaving.

Foreman looked back at House, carefully--gently--wiping the sweat off his face.

"House. Come on, wake up."

House turned his face a little towards him, mumbling.

"What?" asked Foreman, leaning down.

"Please...Foreman..."

Foreman stood.

"House?"

The door slid open, and he turned.

Wilson? What the hell was Wilson doing there?

"I saw John in the hall," he said quietly, "I just... if he wants to visit... stay in the room. They... don't really get along."

Foreman looked at him.

"Yeah. I found that out."

Wilson looked away, nodding.

Foreman tilted his head, looking at Wilson. Why wasn't he leaving?

He finally looked back at House, though not at Foreman.

"House... I'm sorry. I... should have handled it better. I shouldn't... I'm sorry."

He left.

Foreman looked at House's face, sighing.

Why was everyone apologizing to him while he was unconscious? ...because they didn't want to deal with his reaction?

They were satisfying their consciences without facing what they had done.

He sighed. Great, House's misanthropy was wearing off on him even more.

House was still mumbling in his sleep.

Foreman sighed again, shaking House's shoulder.

House just groaned.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

This sucked. He had given House some Tylenol earlier, but his fever was still 102.

At least he knew it was just a bad dream; House wasn't delirious.

Foreman picked up the glass of cold water, looking at it.

He really did not need to know that about House—and House would probably torture him for weeks because he had found out.

He shook his head, setting the glass down and carefully pulled House's hospital robe to the side, rubbing his chest.

House groaned, opening his eyes and sitting up quickly, gasping under the mask.

He wiped the sweat off his face, panting.

Foreman sighed, as House pulled the oxygen mask off, leaning forward, head in his hands.

"Dammit... I was talking in my sleep, wasn't I?"

Foreman nodded silently.

House looked at him.

"You're not saying anything."

Foreman shrugged, "Trying to forget about it."

House watched him for a while, then nodded.

"You'd better succeed."

Foreman nodded.

House put the oxygen mask back on, leaning back into the pillows.

Foreman noticed that his hand went to finger the bandages on the stump of his leg.


	8. Chapter 8

Two days later, the pneumonia was still almost as bad, and House was sleeping a lot again.

Foreman's phone rang.

"Hello?"

'Eric?'

Foreman swallowed, "Hi dad. Is this... I mean, it's kind of a bad time."

'Your mother's Alzheimer's took a turn for the worst... the doctors say she might not come out of it... I... you should come home, so you can say goodbye.'

Foreman looked at House, who was obviously pretending to be asleep, and got up, walking out into the hall and closing the door behind himself.

"I... I can't, Dad."

'What could be more important—'

"Just.... just let me explain. A lot of stuff's been going on... um, you remember..." Foreman stopped, running his hand over his head, "Ok, it's a long story but a... friend... of mine just lost his leg, got pneumonia, hospitalized, can barely sit up."

A long silence.

'Maybe... maybe they can move her there.'

Foreman looked up at the ceiling.

"It depends on how bad it is."

'Right... well... I'll ask. um... good talking to you, Eric.'

"Yeah dad. Bye."

Foreman closed his phone, leaning back against the cool glass separating the hall from House's room.

He sighed, shaking his head, and walked back in, sitting down in his chair.

He heard the hiss that meant House had pulled the mask off, and tensed.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

A long pause.

"Your mom. The Alzheimer's," said House, quietly.

Foreman jerked upright, staring at him.

"How the hell...?"

House shrugged weakly, sucking on the oxygen mask before continuing, "Does it really matter? What's going on?"

Foreman sighed.

"It... she fell. It's fine."

House snorted.

"You're lying."

Foreman looked away.

"It took a turn for the worst. He didn't say exactly how bad, but..."

"Ok..." House was panting, "So what're you going to do? This mean I finally get you outta my hair?"

Foreman stood, pressing the oxygen mask back over House's face.

"No. Not unless you start displaying an unsuspected ability to not kill yourself."

House rolled his eyes, slapping Foreman's hand away and yanking the mask off.

"Go say goodbye to your mom. I'll finally get some peace and neither of us will have to deal with your guilt."

Foreman looked at him, frowning.

"Well what do you want..." he stopped, considering House's face.

"What? I bleeding, or something?" asked House, looking slightly creeped out.

"Why would you have to deal with my guilt?"

House opened his mouth.

He didn't say anything.

Foreman tilted his head, watching him.

House put the oxygen mask on and rolled over.

Foreman snorted, but didn't push further.

House started jerking, and Foreman sighed. House had been having occasional seizures ever since the bleed in his brain, so he wasn't worried about this one, but it still couldn't be fun for House. Though, he was partially relived that it was something he knew pretty darn well how to handle. He didn't like having to trust other doctors.

The seizure ended on its own, Foreman suctioned the saliva out of house's mouth, and rubbed his back to get him breathing again. He would take House down to radiology, for a CT to make sure the skull fracture hadn't widened again, but everything should be fine.

Foreman's phone rang again.

He picked it up, sighing.

"Yeah?"

'They said no. Eric, I'm sorry...'

"Oh... right. OK. I... uh... I'll call you back."

'Alright. goodbye, Eric.'

Foreman hung up.

The room was silent for a long while.

House eventually woke up.

"Do a lung biopsy."

Foreman blinked.

"What? why?"

"Because I'm sick of you baby-sitting me and if I'm doing better it'll be easier to get you to go away."

Foreman snorted.

"You know.... many people would think you suggested that because you wanted me to be able to see my mom."

"Many people who have never met me?" asked House, coughing between words.

Foreman rolled his eyes, picking up the oxygen mask and shoving it back onto House's face.

"Shut up."

House rolled his eyes.

Foreman got up, sighing.

"I can't just leave my stupid half dead boss alone in the hospital."

House pushed the up button on his bed, glaring and yanking the mask off.

"I am not a child! I am not going to get lonely and upset just because the guy who my boss forced to be around me leaves! Does that *cough* sound *cough* at _all_ like me?! *cough* I sure *cough* as *cough* hell *cough* ho*cough* ho*cough* ho*cough* *cough*."

Foreman sighed, placing the oxygen mask on House's face.

"Ho-ho-ho to you too."

House closed his eyes, coughing hard.

Foreman upped the oxygen flow, frowning.

House just kept coughing.

Foreman upped it some more, reaching across House to push the up button and raise the bed all the way.

House kept gasping and coughing, opening his eyes.

"House, you need to sit up."

House looked at him, eyes watering.

Foreman rolled his eyes, shoving his arm behind House's shoulders and pulling him up farther than the bed would lift him. He ended up leaning forward against Foreman's chest and shoulder.

"House? can you breathe?"

House nodded, gasping.

Foreman reached back, upping the oxygen to 100 percent.

House finally closed his eyes again, still gasping.

"Yeah," said Foreman, "you don't need me around...."

House lifted his head, looking exhausted as he pulled the mask just a few centimeters away from his face, stretching the green elastic.

"Do the biopsy. Even if I can't get you to go away, this is getting old."

Foreman nodded, lowering House back against the bed.

"I'll get the stuff."

House nodded, eyelids drifting shut.

Foreman stood, walking to the door, then stopped, looking back at House.

He allowed himself only a brief gaze, before turning again and walking away.

House opened one eye, watching him go.

* * *

A few hours and a lung biopsy later, Foreman was holding the oxygen mask over House's face because House was dreaming, asleep after getting the mild sedation he had been under for the biopsy, and kept pulling it off.

"House. Wake up. Come on, House. Stop fighting the mask and wake up."

A muffled groan was the only response.

Foreman sighed, lifting the mask.

Twenty seconds later, he pulled a gasping and slightly panicked House upright, placing the mask back over his face.

House, finally starting to catch his breath, glared at Foreman.

Foreman shrugged, "you wouldn't wake up."

House closed his eyes, too tired to be all that annoyed.

"The biopsy showed it was fungal, which was why the antibiotics weren't helping very much. Start you on the right anti-fungal, should be mostly better in a week or so."

House nodded without opening his eyes.

"If you let me put a respirator mask on you, I'll leave."

House opened his eyes, raising his eyebrows at the same time.

Foreman shrugged, "I want to see my mom, you want me to leave you alone for a while, it all works out."

House watched him for a long moment. then he nodded, closing his eyes.

* * *

Two hours later, House had the sturdy black and clear plastic mask strapped to his face, pumping air into his lungs, and Foreman was in his car on the way to New York Presbyterian to visit his mom.

House opened his eyes.

Oh. Right.

He was alone.

Foreman had finally left.

He reached up, unstrapping the uncomfortable mask.

god, he was lightheaded.

Oh... gonna...

He just managed to press the call button before passing out.

* * *

By the time he opened his eyes again, someone was in the room, leaning over him, a stethoscope pressed to his chest.

"House, can you hear me?"

Cuddy.

He nodded.

She sighed, lifting the bell of the stethoscope from his chest.

"You're an idiot. Why did you pull the mask off?"

He rolled his eyes.

Cuddy sighed, shaking her head.

"Were you trying to get attention?"

Headshake.

"Were you trying to make yourself pass out?"

Headshake.

"Were you just bored?"

Nod.

Cuddy sighed.

"Well, if you don't want me to call Foreman and tell him he can't see his mom because you're bored.... you might want to stop doing stupid stuff like that."

House looked at her, frowning beneath the mask.

Cuddy smiled briefly.

House glared, then closed his eyes.

"House?"

House opened his eyes again.

She smiled again.

"House... never mind."

House blinked at her, reaching up and loosening the straps and pulling the mask off so he could talk.

"I'm not being... nice or... sympathe... sympathetic, I... just... fed.... up........"

Cuddy hurriedly pressed the mask back over House's face as his head dropped back into the pillows.

He was unconscious.

Cuddy sighed, watching his oxygen saturation slowly climb back into the 90's.

* * *

Foreman frowned, standing at the end of his mother's hospital bed.

This wasn't Alzheimer's.

She should still be vocally responsive to pain, she should be breathing on her own, and Alzheimer's didn't progress from disorientation to a coma in as little time as her chart said had happened...

He looked up, as her doctor entered.

"Dr. Foreman," he said in greeting.

Foreman looked at the man.

"She's at a six on the glascow coma scale. Alzheimer's wouldn't cause that, certainly not this suddenly."

Dr. Marshals frowned, coming in and taking the pen Foreman held out to him, pressing the tip into foreman's mother's big toe.

Then he looked at Foreman.

"She wasn't that unresponsive an hour ago."

He grabbed the chart, looking it over.

Then he looked back at Foreman.

"I have no idea what this is."

Foreman looked up from his mother's MRI as his phone rang.

Cuddy.

"Hello?"

'House is barely staying conscious. He's asleep... he... he'll kill me for telling you this, but he's calling for you in his sleep. When he can get enough breath, anyway."

Foreman swallowed.

"My mom's in an unexplained coma. New York Presbyterian doesn't have a diagnostics department. The kids from Mercy are coming over, but I worked with them, they've got no idea what they're doing."

A long silence came from the other end.

'Foreman... I...'

"Tell Wilson to get over his stupid need to blame someone not himself and get him to go sit with House."

'I tried. I don't... he's still mad at me, his dad couldn't stand him any longer, went back to Ohio, his mom couldn't come, and...'

And he's calling for you.

Cuddy couldn't bring herself to say the last part.

She didn't want to guilt Foreman into abandoning his own mother for a misanthropic bastard.

Foreman closed his eyes.

"I'll call you back."

He hung up.

He wasn't his mother's doctor. He had seen, just recently, how badly things could go when a person's doctor wasn't objective.

So... that meant the choice was between being family for his mother or a friend for House.

If he thought about it in a purely logical way, he should go back to New Jersey—his dad was already here, and his mom was in a coma, she wouldn't care. House was completely alone, and aware of what was going on.

But... his mother was his mother.

He couldn't just...

And House was a manipulative bastard with no regard for the people around him, who was only alone because he had only had two people who cared about him enough that they would be there under other circumstances.

But.... that had changed, a little, over the last month. _Foreman_ would be there under other circumstances.

From the sound of it... House might well die. And if he did... it would be a lonely, painful, terrifying, and miserable death, and he would be fully aware of what was happening.

If his mother died... it would be peacefully in her sleep.

His phone rang again.

"Hello?"

'He went into respiratory arrest. We had to intubate. He's awake now, getting more air. We drained half a pint of fluid, that seems to have helped as well. He... he's not feeling so good. I... I thought you might want...'

Cuddy broke off, sounding upset.

Foreman could hear the hiss of the respirator in the background.

"Right."

He hung up without thinking, head in his hands, phone falling to the floor.

He couldn't get the picture of House, intubated, in pain, fearing that the next breath wouldn't come, out of his head.

His dad came in, blinking.

"Eric, what's the matter?" he asked, surprised at how upset his son's usually impassive expression was.

Eric looked at him.

"The friend who just lost a leg... it's House, my boss. Except he's kind of more a friend now, and... he's not doing so hot. The pneumonia isn't responding to the treatment, he's on a machine that's breathing for him, he's in pain..."

"Is... is he gonna die?"

Foreman shrugged, "I don't know. Cuddy says it's pretty bad..."

"Could he die?"

"Yes, easily."

"Who's with him? Are they... is his family there?"

"His mom couldn't come, his dad left 'cause they don't get along—at all—Wilson, his best friend, thinks he killed Wilson's girlfriend, and he's mad at Cuddy because she pushed the amputation. so... no."

Rodney Foreman walked over, placing his hands on his son's shoulders.

"From how upset you are, son... I'd say that he's about as close to family as your mother is. Except he's the family you've gained, the family that you are a part of in your life. This is where you came from, but... it's not really yours. You're our family, but we're... we're not yours in the same way. You shouldn't abandon your family, Eric. Your mother won't miss you, and I'm the one telling you this. Go be with _your_ family."

Foreman shook his head, "it's not... I'm not close enough that he's family. I'm just the closest person right now."

Rodney shook his head.

"I can see it, even if you can't. Now get out of here."

Foreman looked up at his dad for a long while.

Then he grabbed his coat, hugged his father, and left.

He wasn't going to argue, if his dad wanted him to go.


	9. Chapter 9

House was only sort of conscious when he got there, a chest tube draining into a large jar, tubes and wires attached to every part of his body. At least he wasn't intubated anymore, he was back on the respirator mask.

He looked exhausted and in pain, and upset.

He was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes a little wet, the dark circles under his eyes shining a little bit, as the light caught the wet there. Foreman wasn't sure if the wet was from pain, emotion, or sweat. He decided to assume it was sweat.

Foreman sighed.

Yeah, he was glad he had come back.

He walked in, House didn't notice, and covered one pale hand with his own dark brown one.

House started, looking at him with an expression of complete surprise of his face.

Foreman swallowed.

His dad was right. There was something more going on than just him being the one Cuddy had stuck watching House.

House looked at him, eyes fixed on his face.

"Hey," he said quietly, "Cuddy called me. Said you weren't doing that well."

House frowned, blinking at him. He finally reached up, unstrapping and lifting the mask.

"Vitamin deficiency."

Foreman blinked.

"What?"

"Vitamin deficiency. Alzheimer's patients sometimes don't eat right, no matter how good their caretakers are," he said, gasping between words.

Foreman blinked at him.

House closed his eyes.

Foreman placed the mask back over his face.

House eventually opened his eyes again.

"I'll tell them to do a blood panel."

House nodded tiredly.

Foreman sat down.

House kept looking at him.

Foreman sighed.

"House... what's going on here? You're... I don't know, clingy."

House rolled his eyes.

Foreman sighed.

Then he hesitantly placed his hand around House's.

House looked at the hand, then at Foreman.

"I don't know what's going on... but this seemed important enough to come all the way back to New Jersey. That's gotta mean something about how serious it is."

House swallowed, looking away.

"Anybody done PT today?"

House glared at him.

Foreman snorted. That was better. House wasn't supposed to be clingy and scared. He was supposed to be cranky and annoying.

He stood, lifting the sheets and placing his hand a few inches above the stump.

House closed his eyes.

"What?"

House shook his head—it wasn't a reaction to what Foreman was doing.

"Just tired?"

House nodded, opening his eyes.

"You gonna do this?"

House nodded.

Foreman waited.

House lifted the stump.

Twelve repetitions in, he closed his eyes again, pressing his head back into the pillows.

"You ok?"

No reaction.

"House?"

House lifted it again.

He finished the fifteen repetitions.

Then he lifted it again.

Foreman blinked.

Then he grinned.

House was being stubborn and bull-headed and frustrated about being in the hospital. That was the best thing that had happened all week.

* * *

Cuddy, standing in the hall outside House's room, smiled.

House had started doing better almost as soon as she had told him that Foreman was coming. And now that Foreman was actually back, he seemed to be a lot happier and more like himself.

* * *

Foreman smiled a little, as House fell asleep.

The older doctor was annoying as hell, but... he had to admit that he kind of liked being around him.

"Hey."

Foreman looked up, blinking as Chase patted his shoulder.

"Hey."

"He looks like crap."

Foreman nodded.

"The bloodwork on your mom came back."

Foreman looked at him.

Chase shook his head.

Foreman sighed.

"Is he...?"

Foreman shrugged.

"He's doing better. He's being stubborn again, which is actually a relief."

Chase smirked.

"You actually care about his state of mind?"

"I have a vested interest in whether or not my boss is a nutscase."

"He's always been a nutcase. This is about whether he's happy."

Foreman sighed.

House shifted a little on the bed, a pained expression under the mask.

Foreman frowned, looking at the status monitor.

Chase tilted his head.

Foreman obviously thought something was wrong, but he couldn't see any indication...

House shot upright, yanking the mask off and gasping.

Foreman caught him on his shoulder, letting him lean forward until he caught his breath and calmed down.

When House finally laid back against the pillows, Chase was gone.

Foreman had to say he was relived.

He knew what the younger doctor would say—that it wasn't in either of their usual characters for that to have happened.

House finally fell asleep again, and Foreman watched him, unaware, for a while, that he had a fond expression on his face.

What the hell? Why was he feeling this way about House?

He sighed, taking House's hand so the older doctor wouldn't have more bad dreams.

* * *

Foreman opened his eyes.

His head was resting on an empty bed.

Great. Just great.

Two hours of searching later, foreman got a call from Princeton General, informing him that someone who had him listed as medical proxy had been brought in unconscious with respiratory problems and an arm injury.

* * *

"You MORON!"

House closed his eyes.

"What the hell were you thinking!?" continued Foreman, sounding irate.

"You were holding my hand. When I woke up, you were holding it. You're starting to care about me."

"So...you ran away because I was holding your hand. Fine. No more touching if you come back without me knocking you out."

House shook his head, looking away.

Foreman sighed, exasperated.

"What were you trying to accomplish?"

"Getting away from you."

"You asked me to stay!"

House nodded.

"What..."

"I killed Wilson's girlfriend and I'm not a good person," interrupted House, sounding upset.

Foreman stared at him for a while.

Then he sighed.

House was so lonely that he couldn't push Foreman away, but the reasons he wasn't a people person were still there. So he had taken himself away from the contact he was starting to depend on—and maybe even enjoy. He didn't want to get hurt again.

....

....

Well too bad for him.

House grunted, as Foreman grabbed his shoulders and started yelling at him.

Twenty minutes in, he started to smile.

Thirty minutes in, he stopped smiling and pushed Foreman away with his left hand.

Foreman leaned back in.

House, desperate to make Foreman go away, slugged him with his right hand, then cried out, holding the arm.

"What was that for?!"

"Go the hell away! You're just gonna get hurt, that's how it always goes! So just leave me alone!"

Foreman stared at him.

You're.

Not I'm.

House grunted, still holding his arm, obviously in pain.

Foreman sighed, watching him.

"We should get that arm x-rayed."

House looked at him.

Then a completely new expression came over his face.

He laughed.

Foreman stared at him.

He kept laughing, until he started coughing, and then gasping, and Foreman sighed and pulled him upright, against his own chest because there didn't seem to be a table House could lean on there.

House didn't stop coughing for a long time, and by the time he had, he was no longer laughing.

He didn't even push Foreman away, just sat there, head resting on Foreman's shoulder, panting.

"Why were you laughing?" asked Foreman, realizing that House was in pain, and could probably use a distraction.

"Be... cause.... funny... first time... years... start get... getting close... dreams... first thing... turns out... true...."

"Ok, I have no idea what you're talking about."

House didn't answer, he had started coughing again.

Foreman unconsciously started rubbing his back.

House couldn't exactly freeze with his chest spasming as violently as it was, but he did stiffen.

Foreman stopped for a brief second.

Then he started again.

House tried to push him off, landed back in the pillows, kept coughing hard.

Foreman picked up the oxygen mask, placing it over his face with 100% oxygen.

House didn't stop coughing.

Foreman frowned, looking at the status monitor.

House wasn't getting anything close to enough air.

"Hey! Breathe!"

House looked at him, starting to panic.

Foreman yelled for a nurse—he didn't have keys to the Princeton General crash carts.

No one was coming.

Two minutes later, a nurse finally saw the flashing call light and hurried into the room.

The bed was flat, the one guy was leaning over the sick one, forcing air into his lungs.

She ran for a doctor.


	10. Chapter 10

House opened his eyes.

He was back at Princeton Plainsboro.

Something warm and heavy was resting on his stomach.

He swallowed, seeing that it was Foreman's head and arm—an exhausted Foreman's head and arm. He looked like he hadn't gotten any sleep in at least a day.

Damn, the tube in his throat was uncomfortable.

Wait.

Tube in his throat.

Princeton general.

Yelling.

Laughing.

Coughing.

Choking.

Mouth-to mouth.

Nurse.

Balding doctor guy.

Foreman grabbing the tube after the second failed attempt at intubation.

Darkness.

No wonder Foreman had been up all night.

....

Foreman was still there.

Dammit, he knew this was a bad idea. He knew Foreman wasn't good with sticking around, and he knew he himself wasn't good with people who weren't good with sticking around.

So why was it so damn hard to convince himself that he didn't want whatever this was?

Well... whatever was going on in his head, something was definitely going on in his wrist. It really hurt.

He lifted his left arm, shaking Foreman's shoulder.

Foreman shot upright, looking at the status monitor.

House flicked his nose.

Foreman looked at him, sighing heavily.

"Dammit, you almost died four times in the last twelve hours."

House rolled his eyes.

Foreman tilted his head.

"What?"

House pointed to his arm.

Foreman's expression cleared.

"Can't get x-rays while you're intubated."

House nodded.

Foreman looked at the status monitor.

"We can probably take you off ventilation now."

House closed his eyes, tired.

Foreman touched his shoulder, he opened them again.

"OK?"

He nodded.

Foreman leaned over him, pulling the tube out.

House took the opportunity to watch the dark eyes, focused on what Foreman was doing as they moved.

An odd feeling started in his stomach, as Foreman leaned further, the tape sticking to the far side of House's face.

He recalled, vaguely, that it had been there in the middle of him choking, while Foreman was pushing air into his lungs via his mouth.

Damn. He really had it bad.

Foreman pulled the tube out, and he was distracted for a while by the extremely uncomfortable sensation.

* * *

Despite the emergency only a day ago, House's breathing was a lot better by that night; he wasn't even on the oxygen mask anymore, and he was stubbornly doing PT even though Foreman told him to rest. He wondered briefly if it could have something to do with Foreman's being there, but dismissed the thought immediately.

The arm pain had turned out to be a sprained wrist, obtained when he had passed out and fallen.

It was wrapped in an ace bandage, which had provided another opportunity for him to watch Foreman.

Damn... he hadn't...

This was the first time in over fifteen years.

This wasn't...

He didn't know what he was doing, or even what he wanted to do.

One part of him wanted to run away screaming, the other part wanted him to jump the younger doctor.

* * *

Two days later, he was released from the hospital, and they were on their way back to Foreman's apartment.

House had the distinct impression that living in a confined space that belonged to Foreman, had Foreman's stuff in it, hell, even smelled like Foreman, was not going to be good for the parts of him that wanted to run away screaming.

House blinked.

Why was there a wheelchair ramp there?

There hadn't been one two weeks ago.

He glared accusingly at Foreman, who ignored him.

"That's not gonna be needed for long."

Foreman looked at him.

"You know you're kidding yourself."

House blinked.

"You've been clinging to hope. I get that. But you need a reality check. If that's gonna happen, it's gonna be months from now. Maybe the crutches will be sooner, but a prosthetic... House, you can barely sit up. Your body isn't anywhere near strong enough for that, and won't be for a long time. And before you ask, no, I do not get off on stripping people of hope. I just... I don't want you to crash."

House watched him for a long time.

"Ok," he said quietly, "You're right."

Foreman stared at him.

"What?"

House sighed.

"You're right. And it isn't something I can argue."

Foreman watched House start to wheel himself up the ramp.

He didn't like it when House didn't fight him.

* * *

Foreman's phone rang.

He looked at it.

"It's my Dad."

"Hello?"

"She... oh..."

"Yeah. Did they have any new ideas?"

"Oh."

"Ok."

"Bye Dad."

Foreman sighed, putting down the phone.

House was watching him intently.

He looked at the older doctor.

"My mom just had a seizure. They're doing another MRI."

House nodded, wheeling himself into another room.

* * *

Thirteen sighed, picking up the phone.

"Hello?"

'Road trip. New York Presbyterian. go.'

"Are you high?"

'Yes. But only to the extent I'm on more pain meds than usual 'cause my leg got chopped off and it hurts to breathe. And not nearly enough that you should start questioning me. So get the other two and go. Patient room 214.'

There was a click.

Thirteen stared at the phone.

* * *

Foreman got up, going to answer the door.

He blinked, when it opened on Wilson.

"Is... I need to talk to House."

Foreman stepped back to let him in.

"In there—probably asleep."

Wilson nodded, going through the door Foreman had indicated.

House was asleep, a little flushed, obviously dreaming.

Wilson sat down on the edge of the bed, watching the older doctor.

"No... Wilson... come back... please...."

Wilson closed his eyes.

House.

He gently shook House's shoulder.

The blue eyes opened a little, then widened as they focused on Wilson.

"What are you doing here?"

Wilson swallowed.

"Apologizing."

House stared up at him, uncertain.

"For what?"

"For not being there when you needed a friend."

House sighed, looking away.

"Right."

Wilson tilted his head.

Then he realized.

House didn't care about the being alone, though he hadn't liked it. What hurt was what had happened. What Wilson had asked him to do. How little he had cared what it did to House.

And... he wasn't ready to apologize for that.

He didn't think he ever would be.

* * *

Foreman sighed, taking a last bite of his sandwich before walking out into the living-room.

House was on the couch, asleep, the remote still held loosely in his left hand, the TV playing an old movie in black and white.

Foreman sat down on the chair opposite the couch, watching the older doctor sleep.

He had spent a lot of time next to a sleeping House in the last month and a half, but he hadn't really _watched_ House sleep.

It wasn't the same as watching a girl sleep; House was a snoring, unshaven, drooling mess sprawled on the couch, but...

There was still something a little tender about watching him like this.

Maybe because not many people saw him like this, all exhausted and sweaty from just getting out of the car and up the ramp, after going grocery shopping with Foreman.

He got up, walking over, kneeling down, and shaking House's shoulder.

House swatted at him briefly, not waking up.

Foreman persisted, and House finally opened his eyes.

"Hey. You probably want to move to the bed, if you're going to sleep."

House shrugged, sitting up and yawning.

"Nah. Didn't mean to fall asleep. Wanna see the end of the movie."

Foreman shrugged, sitting down on the couch and turning his attention towards the television.

Fifteen minutes later, he had a snoring, drooling head on his leg, and an arm with a bandaged wrist lying across his lap.

He smiled a little to himself, putting his hand on House's slowly rising and falling back.

House snuffled a little in his sleep, pressing his face into Foreman's hip.

Foreman leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes.

He... this felt way more right than it should.

Whatever.

House wouldn't let anyone in after what had happened between him and Wilson, probably for the rest of his life.


	11. Chapter 11

"It's methyl chloride poisoning. Taub and Kuttner are with Foreman's dad, trying to find the source," reported Thirteen, on the other end of the line.

"Why are you reporting to me first? It's Foreman's mom, not mine."

"She... might not wake up. I don't... I know Foreman just well enough to make it awkward, without knowing what approach would be best. She's down to a three, no response to anything, I don't..."

House sighed.

"Fine. Stay there, keep monitoring her."

"Right."

"Foreman."

Foreman looked up, holding a phone.

"I saw it was Thirteen."

House nodded grimly.

"She's either going to come through, or she's not. I don't know which, but given the increasingly severe symptoms..."

Foreman looked away.

"Go talk to Cameron."

Foreman looked at House.

Then he snorted.

"That's the best you can do? Talk to Cameron?"

House looked at him.

"Did you actually expect me do even try?"

"No, I didn't. I was just commenting on the fact your attempt was pathetic. I'm going back out there—you're not dying right now, are you?"

House shook his head.

"When are we leaving?"

Foreman, halfway through turning to go to his room for a suitcase, stopped.

We?

He turned slowly around, looking at House.

House was sitting there, an expression encouraging no argument or comment firmly in place.

* * *

Rodney Foreman looked up, as his son entered the room.

"They said..."

"She probably won't wake up."

Rodney looked past Eric, frowning.

"Dr. House?"

Foreman glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at his dad.

"Yeah. He kind of insisted on coming. Don't ask me why."

Rodney shrugged, hugging his son.

* * *

Foreman sighed, shifting in his chair as he sat by his mother's bedside, watching the respirator slowly move her chest up and down.

House was sitting in the wheelchair, a few paces back, reading a book.

The cardiac alarm went off.

House put the book down.

A doctor rushed in, shocking Foreman's mother.

The alarm kept going.

Someone pulled Rodney Foreman out of the room so they could shock his wife without him holding her hand.

Foreman was standing now, stiff, staring.

He looked down, as something briefly touched his hand.

House, looking extremely awkward.

He grabbed the hand.

The doctor called time of death.

Foreman sunk back into his chair, leaning forward and crying.

House swallowed, and, reaching out as hesitantly as he had ever done anything in his life, put his still-bandaged arm around Foreman's shoulders.

Foreman immediately responded, pressing his face into House's shoulder and holding on to the older doctor's shirt.

House looked past Foreman's shoulder as he sat there awkwardly, seeing Rodney Foreman, crying and holding his wife's hand.

A wave of panic washed over him, as it hit him exactly what was going on between him and Foreman, but he didn't push Foreman away.

He could stop the trend later. Right now... right now, Foreman needed something to hold on to.

* * *

House didn't come to the funeral, but Foreman hadn't expected him to. He had been there at the hardest part, and had probably used up his reservoir of humanity for the entire month.

Cameron and Chase were there; Cameron hugged him through seemingly half of the service, Chase squeezed his shoulder briefly.

The kids were there in the background, and he saw that Thirteen had gotten two flowers to put on the grave. Somehow he was guessing one of them was from House, a subtle thing that he might not have even noticed, and that almost certainly no one else would have.

He swallowed, as his father started crying, and patted him on the back, almost as awkward as House had been in the hospital.

He finally stepped up to the casket, swallowing hard.

"I've come a long way from where I was born. But her arms were still the only place I felt at home," and that was all he could get out.

His dad gave a tear-choked speech, and many other people he hadn't really known since childhood spoke after him.

Cuddy hugged him, as the casket was lowered into the ground.

Nurse Brenda patted him on the back.

Even Wilson was present, standing in the very rear.

* * *

When he got home, he had something of a scare, spotting House on the floor, but then realized House was sitting up and looked perfectly fine.

"Why are you on the floor?"

"Because I slipped moving from there," he pointed to the wheelchair, "to there," he pointed to the couch.

Foreman sighed.

"And I didn't feel like getting up, since I found your porn under the couch."

Foreman turned as red as it was possible for him to turn.

House smirked at him.

Foreman's eyes widened.

House held up a male porn mag.

Foreman closed his eyes.

"You do realize that I don't actually give a shit, right?"

Foreman blinked at him.

"I just find it interesting, is all."

Foreman sighed, walked over, and grabbed the magazine out of House's hand.

House smirked.

Foreman helped him up, then sat down next to him on the couch after taking off his jacket.

They sat there in silence for a while.

"How'd it go?"

"How do you think it went? It was a funeral."

House said nothing, and Foreman realized that had been a very awkward way to tell him he could talk about it if he needed to.

He shook his head, and House nodded.

House picked up the remote, turned the television on. Foreman picked up a book.

"Food."

Foreman looked at him.

"Food helps."

Foreman blinked.

"And it's better for you than beer."

Foreman snorted, getting up.

"You're just hungry."

House smirked, eyes fixed on the screen, but didn't confirm or deny it.

Foreman went into the kitchen.

He really didn't have anything. No surprise, since he had been here for a total of four days out of nearly the past two months, and their grocery trip before his mom died had been limited to milk, toilet paper, and beer.

"New plan. Takeout."

House shrugged, still watching the television intently.

Foreman finally looked at the screen, and promptly spluttered.

"What the hell, House?!"

House looked at him, smirking.

"Hey, it's a lot more tame than some of the stuff under your couch."

Foreman gapped at him.

"Why are you watching guys...."

House snickered, picking up Foreman's book.

Foreman stared at him for a while, then shook his head and walked towards the door.

"You can get your own food!" he said, and shut the door behind himself.

Standing on the top step outside his apartment, he realized he was smiling.

That bastard—he had intentionally got him annoyed so he would get back at him, and feel better.

Actually... he had probably just been annoying because he liked being annoying, but whatever...

House, still sitting on the couch, allowed himself a small smile.

* * *

By the time Foreman had gotten back, House had changed the channel to something a little bit more... reasonable... and fallen asleep, sprawled across the couch.

Foreman was tempted to sit on him, but resisted the urge and set the food down, shaking his shoulder roughly.

House grunted, opening his eyes and looking around, blearily.

"Move your ass."

House sat up.

Foreman sat down.

House yawned, stretching.

They sat there for a while, House occasionally grabbing pieces of Foreman's lemon chicken, Foreman making less than a full effort of stopping him. House still wasn't doing very well in the nutrition department, though he had ironically gained some weight since the amputation. Most people did worse after the removal of a body part... but then again, that was why they had amputated.

"Why are you here?"

"On what level?"

"Why aren't you having dinner with your dad, or Chase and Cameron? Why are you sitting next to me on a couch watching a boring movie and eating bad Chinese?"

Foreman looked at him.

He looked confused.

Foreman shrugged.

"Because... I don't want to talk about it."

"Why you're here, or is that the reason?"

"That's the reason."

"Oh. OK."


	12. Chapter 12

House opened his mouth, as he turned the wheelchair around to see who had grabbed his shoulder, and found himself staring straight at Wilson.

"How the hell did you manage that?!"

House stared at him.

"What..." he didn't know what to say. He didn't know....

"How the hell did you manage to go with Foreman so he could say goodbye to his mom, be there with him when she died, and still not get close to him?!"

House stared at him.

Wilson started to frown.

"House?"

House swallowed, turning away.

"Why are you talking to me?"

"Because you're an idiot!"

"You're talking to me because you're feeling guilty because you think you've broken me, and that's 'how the hell I managed' it. You're talking to me to satisfy your own conscience, not because you want to talk to me."

Wilson blinked, "House, I don't—"

House spun around, glaring at the first person he had ever got comfortable that they weren't going to hurt him about.

"Do you have any idea what it feels like to have you talking to me like this?! It's like you're throwing it in my face, you're grinding salt into the wounds, you're-- are you trying to torture me, or something?! Because if you are, fine! If it'll make you feel better, fine! If that will make you feel just a little, _tiny_ bit less mad at me, fine, go ahead, I want you to do it! But if you didn't realize that's what you were doing... well... now you know. So which was it? I'm not going anywhere fast."

There were tears on House's face.

Wilson swallowed.

"I... I didn't... I'm sorry."

He turned and walked away.

House watched him go, panting.

He heard someone coming up behind him, and quickly wiped his face on his sleeve.

"What are you looking!—oh." Foreman.

"That never happened. You didn't hear any of that."

"Any of what?"

House nodded.

Foreman shifted the bag on his shoulder, walking next to House as they headed towards the elevators.

House stopped, as Foreman held the elevator door open for him.

"What?"

"I'm gonna talk to Cuddy."

Foreman shrugged, "Meet you in the cafeteria?"

"Yeah."

House wheeled himself into the elevator, turning around as it went down.

The doors opened on the second floor, Foreman got out, some random nurse entered.

Ground floor, both House and the nurse got out, House headed towards Cuddy's office.

Somebody was inside talking to her.

He opened the outer door, trying to see if it was someone she wouldn't be extremely furious if she interrupted a talk with. He didn't care, usually, but he wanted her in a good enough mood that she would still talk to him.

Nurse Brenda. Yeah, that could be easily rescheduled.

He barged in, pushing the door open with his foot.

"Hi."

Cuddy looked at him, sighing.

"Can this wait?"

"No, actually."

"You don't have a patient."

"I have an emotion. I might go into anaphylaxis at any moment."

Brenda snorted despite herself.

House looked at her, making a shocked face.

She rolled her eyes at him.

Cuddy sighed.

"Brenda, I'll talk to you in a few minutes."

"What is this about, House?" asked Cuddy, tiredly.

"I'm offended. You don't want to talk to me?"

Cuddy looked at him.

"You're nervous."

"Am not."

"You came in here to talk to me, but all you're doing is making jokes. You're avoiding what you came in here to talk to me about. You're nervous about whatever it is."

House sighed, scratching behind his ear.

"I think I might... um... like someone."

Cuddy stared at him.

"You _just_ realized that?"

* * *

Foreman looked up from staring at his phone, as House came over to the table he was sitting at.

"Done?"

House nodded, looking thoughtful.

"What did you talk to her about?"

House looked at him.

"Her uncle's llama breeding farm."

Foreman rolled his eyes at the obvious aversion, but then blinked, as House kept looking at him.

"What?"

House shook his head, looking away.

"What, already?"

House sighed.

"Nothing. Who called you?"

Foreman sighed.

"My dad. He asked me if I could call my brother."

"Your brother know yet?"

"No, that's why he wants me to call him."

House shrugged, grabbing some of Foreman's French fries. Foreman ignored him.

House was finally starting to have the energy to screw with him. Foreman was actually glad.

* * *

Foreman grunted, opening his eyes.

The hell?

Was that... sobbing?

If it was, it was awful loud...

Shit, House.

He got up, still half asleep, and made it as quickly as he could to the bedroom door, pushing it open.

That had to be one violent nightmare.

Glass, metal, plastic, people flying in the air, rolling, falling hurting breaking burning bleeding crying screaming dying cutting—his leg was gone, she was dead, Wilson was unconscious, and no!—House! House, WAKE UP, IT'S JUST A BAD DREAM!"

He opened his eyes, gasping, crying, shaking...

Foreman.

Still there.

Foreman blinked, as an obviously very shaken House grabbed his shirt and hung on for dear life.

"Hey, calm down. It was just a dream."

It didn't seem to be just a dream anymore. From the way House was clinging to him, it had morphed into a full-on panic attack.

Foreman was never very good with that kind of thing, but that actually made it easier, as it turned out. That way, he had something to take his mind off the fact that he was sitting on his bed with House lying basically on top of him. Then again, the fact that House was still crying his name probably would have distracted him anyway.

House eventually seemed to calm down some, still hiding his face in Foreman's shirt, but no longer sobbing audibly.

Foreman didn't say anything, didn't push him away, didn't react.

Somehow, he was guessing that whatever was going on, with House letting himself hold on to Foreman and cry, would end, if he did.

And he was pretty sure that would be not a good thing for House.

House finally fell back asleep, and Foreman let him, just gently moved his elbow so it was no longer jabbing him in the kidney, and closed his own eyes.

He didn't want to wake House up by moving him.

Yeah.

That was it.

It had nothing to do with the slight ache, or the warm feeling in his chest.

* * *

House yawned, lifting his head a little bit off the warm form it was lying on.

That was the same color as Foreman's nightshirt.

He lifted his head a little bit more, so the thing he had been hugging in his sleep was clearer.

Oh.

That would be because it was Foreman's nightshirt. On Foreman.

Huh.

Oh.

Right.

Dream.

Panic attack.

Holding on to him.

Crying.

Yeah, it made more sense now.

He looked at Foreman's face.

The younger doctor was still asleep.

He hesitated for only a moment, before slowly resting his head back down, closing his eyes and reveling in the sensation of the warm contact.

* * *

When he woke again, Foreman was gone.

He slowly sat up, grimacing briefly and reaching for the bottle of pain pills on the nightstand.

He stopped.

Not today.

Today, he wouldn't take them, and he would be able to think completely clearly.

Wait, today was the test run with the first temporary prosthetic.

Oh, whatever.

He wanted to figure this out before it went somewhere he wasn't sure it wanted to go.

* * *

Three weeks later, Foreman sighed, watching House stagger between the two bars in the left-hand corner of the PT lab, the temporary prosthetic sort of dragging along.

He suddenly fell, curling.

Foreman and the physical therapist waited a while, but he didn't move or look at them.

Foreman glanced at the woman, she nodded, and he walked over, kneeling down next to House.

"Hey. You hurt something?"

"Go away!"

"Yes or no, did you hurt something?"

"Will you go away if I answer?"

"Yes."

"No, I didn't hurt anything."

"Ok, good. Now get up and try again."

House sat up, glaring at him.

"You said you'd go away!"

Foreman rolled his eyes.

House folded his arms.

"Go away."

"No," said Foreman, standing up and walking around behind House, "Get up, or I'll lift you myself."

House looked behind himself, mouth open to yell at Foreman.

Foreman grabbed him around the chest and pulled him up.

He elbowed Foreman in the stomach.

Foreman let go.

"GO AWAY!"

"No."

"I will seriously hit you if you don't LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Don't care."

House took a step, swinging at Foreman's face.

Foreman took a step back, avoiding the fist.

House took another step, this time connecting with Foreman's jaw and knocking the younger doctor against the wall.

He grabbed Foreman's collar, glaring fiercely at the younger doctor.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY LIFE!" he yelled, then kissed Foreman savagely.

Foreman kissed back, just as viciously.

They finally had to pull back for air, the brown and blue eyes still glaring at each other.

"Get off me."

"You."

"No."

"Shut up."

Another kiss.

House shoved at Foreman.

Foreman shoved at House.

Another kiss.

The physical therapist fled.

* * *

Cameron blinked, as she pulled back the curtain on her next patient, and found House and Foreman sitting there, looking distinctly the worse for wear.

"What happened?" she asked, taking in the bruise blossoming on the side of House's face, Foreman's hand clenched tightly to his side, House's hand over his ear...

"He kissed me," said Foreman in a monotone.

She blinked.

"You know what? I don't want to know."


	13. Chapter 13

Note: this chapter was written before Emancipation aired. So as far as we knew, Marcus was Foreman's older brother, not younger.

Foreman sighed, loading the pack into the trunk of the car.

House came up next to him, pack in his lap.

"Why do we have to tell him face-to-face?"

Foreman sighed.

"_You_ don't_ have_ to do anything. _I_ want to talk to him, and you're insisting on coming along."

"Why?"

"Because you're an ass."

House rolled his eyes.

Foreman sighed, turning around and looking at House, "I want to leave that part of me behind."

"You can't."

He frowned.

"You're competitive, and you never back down, and you believe in yourself above everybody else. That's that part of you, and it's a little late to get rid of it."

Foreman sighed, "that's not what I meant. I want to let go of the part of me that doubts that I can do it. Not the part of me that always wants to fight to do it..."

"If you don't doubt it, you won't fight. If you don't fight, you're not you. Whatever happened, whatever made you you... that's who it made you."

Foreman blinked.

"That's... unexpectedly sappy of you."

House sighed.

"People always want to change themselves. They think if they get rid of this part, or that part, they'll be happier. It doesn't work that way. There are things you can change, but they don't mean anything about yourself. You can, for instance, decide what you're learning in church is crap and piss off your dad by saying so, but that's not inside. The part of you that refused to blindly follow what people were telling you... that's the important part. That's the part you can't change."

"I didn't—"

"Personal example. Me as you."

"Ah. Your family's religious?"

"Yeah. And my dad's a bigot, but I'd rather not go into that."

"Huh. Kind of the opposite of you."

House looked at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"And you like the fact that you're nothing like him. You like that you rose above that."

"Yeah...."

"Which is exactly why I want to see my brother."

House looked at him for a while.

"Yeah, ok."

Foreman smirked, lifting the wheelchair into the backseat after House got in the front passenger seat.

* * *

"Mom's dead."

Marcus Foreman raised his head, from having been staring fixedly at the table.

"How... when?"

"A leaky refrigerator tube... the stuff that made the refrigerator cold ended up poisoning her."

"... you're tellin' me that a fucking fridge...."

"Yes."

Marcus looked past his younger brother.

"Who's the gimp?"

"Dr. House."

"Oh... guess he hired you, huh?"

Foreman blinked for a moment.

Then he turned around, looking at House.

House just shrugged, smirking.

"Why'd your boss come along so you could tell me Mom's dead?" asked Marcus, looking back at Eric.

"Because.... it's a long story."

Marcus looked at House, then back at his brother.

"You tellin' me you're a fag?"

Foreman sighed.

"Look, I came to tell you about Mom. That's the only reason I'm here."

"Fuck that."

"You don't care that mom's dead?"

"I ain't talked to her in ten years, ain't talked to _any_ of you, and then you show up and tell me you're a fag? What the fuck's up with that?"

Foreman sighed.

"You know what? I don't care. I don't _care_ what you think. Because like it or not, I turned out better than you."

Marcus, for some reason, smirked.

"Yeah. You did. And I'm proud of that. I'm proud my little bro didn't screw up. I'm proud that I can tell the guys in here that my bro's a doctor, and a good one. And I bet Mom was proud too."

* * *

Foreman sighed, getting into the car after putting the wheelchair in the back.

....

"You can't say you turned out better than your brother without acknowledging that he's your brother."

Foreman looked at House.

"Yeah."

He started the car.

Then he stopped.

"You called my brother?"

House shrugged.

"Called everybody."

Foreman sighed, shaking his head, and pulled out of the parking lot.

"Why did you have to do that?"

House shrugged.

"Chase wanted to be a doctor to please his dad. Cameron wanted to be a doctor because she was damaged, and because she's obsessively caring."

"And I wanted to be a doctor because my mom had Alzheimer's. Don't tell me you found that out _last_, after bugging everybody."

House sighed.

"It's not enough."

Foreman shrugged.

"So what did you decide? Why did I become a doctor?"

House didn't say anything.

Foreman glanced at him.

"What? I became a doctor because I wanted to prove myself as good as anyone else. What's so hard to say about that?"

House shook his head.

"You became a doctor because you wanted to prove that where you came from didn't matter. You wanted to prove to everybody that your brother made a choice, and you made a different one. You wanted to prove to yourself that you could make that choice. You refused to listen to what the culture around you was telling you about yourself, and you refused to follow the example of your family. You wanted to prove that nothing someone is born into means anything about them."

Foreman was silent for a while.

"That sounds like why you became a doctor."

"No. Does sound like me, but it has nothing to do with why I became a doctor. I do think it's true, but I didn't do anything specifically to prove it. Though the part about refusing to listen—that's something I did a lot."

"You're a middle-class white guy. What example didn't you follow?"

House snorted.

"You know my dad was in the marines, right?"

"Yeah, Cameron mentioned it."

"I didn't join the army when I was eighteen. I didn't go to church. I didn't get a girlfriend and marry her before I went off to war. In fact, I had to work through pre-med, grad, and med school, because my dad thought if he didn't pay for it, I'd give up, go home, and join the military. I got boyfriend when I was twenty, he nearly disowned me. Lucky my mom was there, or else he would have broken something. In me."

Foreman looked at him.

He had thought that had been a banned topic.

"He had a temper. Has a temper. Never meant it. Never means it. Even the not paying thing was supposed to be for my own good. He wanted me to follow this example that all my relatives had. Girls got married, guys went off to war. He was always worried that by breaking the pattern, I'd end up begging for coins in a gutter somewhere."

"Cameron said Wilson told her they're disappointed."

House sighed.

"Wilson has a big mouth. So does Cameron."

"Well, you obviously didn't end up begging for coins... why're they disappointed?"

House sunk down in the seat until his chin was resting on his chest.

"Wow. Really subtle."

"Shut up," said House, turning the radio on.

Half an hour later, he turned it off.

"The other half. They're disappointed because I'm a miserable fifty-year old crippled drug addict with no girlfriend and one friend. Mom'll be happier, but... Dad's probably gonna blow up at me."

Foreman glanced at him.

"You mind?"

"What? That my bigot of an abusive father, who I hate, will be pissed at me? Uh, lemme think about that one for a minute."

* * *

Foreman sighed, watching House slowly work his way down between the bars.

This...

Wasn't working.

Not them, House.

House's leg—or lack there of.

It wasn't just the physical difficulty, the pain from the amputation, though a significant improvement on the agony he had been in before, was still wearing at him.

House fell, landing on his front.

The physical therapist took a step towards him, he glared at her, dragging himself back up.

He was panting, sweaty, exhausted.

Every day.

He needed a break.

_They_ needed a break.

Foreman got up, walked over, waited for House to get to the end of the bars, and ducked under his arm.

"What the hell?"

"Breaktime."

"The session isn't finished for another ten—"

"I agree with Dr. Foreman. Ending ten minutes earlier isn't going to significantly impact your progress. Stressing yourself like you have been might. Take a break. Go home, get something to eat. Go to a movie. Anything," she winked at Foreman.

House glared between them, sighed, and pushed away from the younger diagnostician.

Foreman smirked, letting him hop to the wheelchair by himself.

* * *

House sighed, sitting in the passenger's seat, and cranked the AC up to max.

Foreman turned it back down.

House glared at him.

"There's a point to it."

"Yeah? Fuck your point."

Foreman blinked, eyes fixed on the road.

"What was that about?"

"I don't know. I'm frustrated. Cranky."

Foreman nodded.

"Makes sense."

House turned the AC back up.

Foreman turned it down again.

"Compromise. You play whatever you want, I keep the AC down."

"Playing whatever I want isn't going to make me less hot."

"Nothing could do that."

House looked at him.

He smirked.

Foreman glanced at him, smirking as well.

House shook his head, still smirking, and looking out the window.

"Where are we?"

"Edge of Trenton."

House looked at him.

"Why the hell are we going to Trenton?"

"Because."

House glared at him.

Foreman said no more.

House folded his arms, glaring steadily at the younger doctor.

Foreman just smirked and kept driving.

They finally pulled to a stop, but House didn't notice because he had fallen asleep.

Foreman shook his shoulder, he grunted, blinking sleepily.

"We're here."

House looked at him, then out the window.

"We drove all the way through Trenton for... what? A beautiful view of a gas-station in the distance? We're in the middle of nowhere."

Foreman smirked, getting out.

House sighed, opening the door and getting to his feet. Foot. Whatever.

Foreman was digging in the trunk.

House rolled his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Foreman."

"Foreman, what are you doing?"

House rolled his eyes again, hopping awkwardly over, right hand on the car to brace himself.

Foreman stood up, just as he got there, holding two beers dripping pieces of ice.

"The middle of nowhere thing was kind of part of the point. Here," he handed House the beers, shut the hood, and sat down.

House handed him back the beers, then sat down, still glaring at him.

Foreman was still smirking.

House narrowed his eyes.

"Do I_ look_ like a total sap?"

Foreman raised an eyebrow, digging in his pocket for a bottle-opener.

House beat him to it, looking distinctly irritated.

"Why wouldn't you let me use the AC?"

"Because the beer'll taste better if you're hot and thirsty."

House rolled his eyes, taking a long draft, glaring at Foreman all the while.

"I hate you," said House, swallowing.

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Foreman, lifting his own beer.

He grunted, as he was knocked off the trunk and onto the ground.

"This."

Foreman grinned.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Foreman's cellphone rang.

He rolled his eyes, grabbing his pants and digging in the pockets.

"Hello?" he panted, watching House with a smirk on his face.

"Ah, Dad. No, uh... not a bad time, just didn't... no, I'm sorry. Sorry."

"What? No, I—. no, I don't mind talking to you at all. No, it's just awkward. Where am I..."

House was forcing back his laughter so hard his face was turning red.

Foreman closed his eyes.

"I'm sitting in a field outside Trenton," said Foreman finally, "with House."

Silence from the other end.

'Oh. That's... oh. Bye, Eric.'

Rodney hung up.

Foreman slowly closed the phone.

House was looking at him, quietly.

He felt like he was back in college, when Dylan's parents walked in on them kissing. Like he was back in med school, spending the winter break in a hotel because Michael went home to his catholic family, and John House had kicked him out when he had refused to join the Marines. Back in residency, back... back with Wilson and Amber, back....

Foreman sighed, finally looking at House.

He blinked, as he saw the upset and far-away look on the older doctor's face.

Then he remembered what Cuddy had told him. About the trend in House's life.

"I don't care," he said, firmly, "and even if I'm lying... it's because I'm choosing you. And yes, for reference, that is one of the sappiest things I have said in my entire life."

House looked sharply at him.

Foreman shrugged, reaching for his shirt.

* * *

A few weeks later, House hopped to the door after the bell rang—Foreman was in the bathroom—and opened the door on a package.

He shoved it inside with on crutch, then sat down on the floor and picked it up.

Foreman came out, rolled his eyes, and grabbed the package.

"It's my aunt's cake. If you want to give yourself food poisoning, go ahead. But eat at your own risk."

House wrinkled his nose, and Foreman snorted.

"Hey, wait a sec. Sounds like it'd be safer than your cooking," said House.

"Ouch," replied Foreman, dryly.

House snorted, shaking his head and smirking a little bit.

"Speaking of cooking, it's your turn," said Foreman out of the study.

"You can't expect a cripple to do such manual labor!"

"You're sitting down twenty-four seven. You could use the exercise," replied Foreman, smirking a little to himself, as he hid House's birthday present in the back of a closet.

He suspected that it would have been significantly harder to lie about the package if House actually remembered when his own birthday was.

House rolled his eyes, reaching for the pan that was _way_ too high up.

"Hey! Get your ass in here!"

Foreman walked in, and promptly started laughing.

House had about twenty kitchen implements piled in his lap, as well as random ingredients that didn't seem like they could to belong to the same kitchen, much less the same meal.

"Do you actually not know how to cook?"

House looked at him.

"I don't do it very often. Like, once a year."

"What do you eat when you're not at the hospital?"

House shrugged, indicating the pan he had been reaching for, "peanut butter and soup."

Foreman handed him the pan, shaking his head.

"Maybe that cake would be safer..."

House glared at him.

Foreman shrugged, walking off into another room.

"Show's how grateful you are!"

"Yeah, 'cause you're so much better!"

They were both smirking to themselves.

* * *

Two hours later, something bearing only a vague resemblance to lasagna was on the table, and House was poking it with a fork.

"Do you think it's edible?" asked Foreman, peering at the thing.

House looked at him, shrugging.

"It's all burned on top, so I'm guessing it's not undercooked..."

"I didn't ask if you thought it would make you sick, I asked if you thought it was edible."

House shrugged again, smirking, "no idea. Why don't you find out."

Foreman rolled his eyes, taking the fork.

His eyes widened briefly, as he tasted the stuff.

It was...

Good?

As in, really good.

House laughed at the expression on his face, shaking his head.

"You seriously believed it. That was awesome."

Foreman glared at him.

"You were..."

"Just joshing you," confirmed House, smirking.

Foreman snorted.

"That word's from like the nineteen-twenties."

"I'm dating myself."

"I know I'm kind of similar, but we're not _actually_ the same person."

House snorted, filling his plate.

* * *

Foreman blinked down at the prescription bottle in the trash. The half-full prescription bottle. Of pain meds.

He smiled.

Sure, House was in for another miserable week, but...

He remembered coming by with some stuff House had needed from the hospital, back after House had been shot.

House had been in full detox, obviously miserable, and extremely cranky.

But when Foreman asked him _why_ he was detoxing, he had replied that it was going to be a huge relief when it was over, and made him swear not to tell anyone that he had said that.

House might enjoy taking drugs occasionally, but he really didn't like being on them all the time. He didn't like doubting his brain's ability to function—his own ability to think.

House hopped in, on crutches again, finally, and braced his hip against the kitchen counter.

"Wanna go somewhere for breakfast before I start puking?" he asked, nodding in response to Foreman looking at him with a raised eyebrow and finger pointing towards the trash can.

Foreman shrugged, "sure."

House nodded again, hopping off to get dressed in more than a T-shirt.

Foreman sighed, halfway through cutting his eggs with the side of his fork.

"How long?"

House shrugged, "didn't take one before I went to bed... I don't know. It was the stronger stuff, just below oxycodone, so the withdrawal's probably going to be worse than before. If it's on the same timescale, I'd say two hours till the big symptoms start. I'm already sweating"

"Still taking the pregabalin for the nerve pain, right?"

House nodded, mouth full of pancake.

Foreman sighed, squirting ketchup onto his eggs.

House looked at them oddly.

"You put ketchup on your eggs?"

"...Yeah.... Why?"

"You _are _a freak."

Foreman rolled his eyes, squirting it onto House's plate as well.

"Shut up and eat."

House rolled his eyes, stabbing some of the eggs.

Half an hour later, they were in the car on the way home, and House started waving frantically for Foreman to pull over.

Foreman did, got out, and braced House so he didn't fall over as he retched.

"You know, you could do this the slow way. Or a coma detox," he said quietly, feeling House trembling beneath his hands.

"No. I'd be cranky and miserable for weeks. And I've had enough of comas to last me at least a year."

"You're always cranky and miserable."

"Yeah, but... it's different, ok?"

"Ok."

House swallowed, leaning against Foreman and panting.

"You don't have to be there, if you don't want. You've been there for the last two months, I think I'd get it if you didn't want to deal with it again. Could check into the rehab center at the hospital, or just stay at my place for a while."

"Yeah right," was Foreman's blunt, no-argument-allowed answer.

House smirked, then gripped Foreman's shoulder as another wave of nausea hit.

Maybe the breakfast thing hadn't been such a good idea.


	14. Chapter 14

Having a big breakfast had definitely been a bad idea, reflected House, hanging over the toilet and trying to balance on the one knee.

"Here."

He looked up. Foreman was there, holding a glass of water.

He took it, washing out his mouth with it.

God, he felt horrible.

Foreman sat down to his right, and he was able to take some of the weight off his left knee, leaning against Foreman with his eyes half closed.

"This sucks. I really don't like this."

"Wow, now there's a surprise."

House snorted faintly, closing his eyes.

"Taub dropped off some stuff. Metaclopamide, if you want it."

"Moron."

"Taub?"

"Both of you. Can't take Reglan, lowers the seizure threshold."

"So does puking so hard you're gonna give yourself another brain bleed."

House looked tiredly at him.

"Fine."

"Wait... what?"

"You're right. That, and I hate puking."

Foreman shrugged, filling the glass again from the sink and mixing a powder into it.

He handed it to House, who chugged it faster than it was really smart to do, with his stomach as irritable as it was.

House leaned back against him as soon as he finished, exhausted.

Foreman sighed, leaning against the cabinets and placing his arm around House's shoulders.

* * *

"Get away from me!"

Foreman stopped, halfway through mixing another dose of Metaclopamide, and walked into the bedroom.

House was sitting on the bed, looking absolutely terrified. He had been sleeping before... this was probably a nightmare mixed with withdrawal-induced panic.

Foreman walked the rest of the way in, sat on the bed next to the older doctor, and pulled him close.

House ended up clinging to him, face hidden in the younger doctor's shirt.

Foreman sighed, carefully placing his hand on the back of House's head, settling back into the pillows to wait.

House eventually calmed down enough Foreman could give him the next dose of nausea medication, then sat with him on the bed for a while.

House looked exhausted, but he wasn't sleeping.

He suddenly grunted, struggling off the bed and making a grab for the crutches.

Foreman caught him before he fell, offering him a bowl to puke into.

House shook his head, "diarrhea."

"Lovely."

"Actually..." started House, grunting with discomfort as he got the crutch under his right side, "somebody did a study where they read a bunch of random English words off to people who didn't know any English..."

"And diarrhea sounded pretty."

House nodded as they reached the bathroom and he lowered himself onto the toilet.

* * *

Foreman grunted, opening his eyes as something jabbed him in the stomach.

House was seizing—dammit.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Foreman was standing next to House's bed in the hospital, too agitated to sit down.

Cameron came in, placing her hand on Foreman's shoulder.

"I knew it could happen."

Cameron looked at him.

"So did he, given they aren't new. Foreman...." she sighed, "he's fine. We'll do a CT, but the fracture's healing."

"He's still unconscious."

"He's exhausted from the withdrawal. He's still recovering from losing a limb and severe respiratory problems. Foreman, he's fine."

"Given that list, I'd actually say I'm _not_ fine..."commented House, yawning.

Cameron smiled, Foreman sighed with relief.

"Your head hurt?"

"My head is one of the few parts of me that _doesn't_ hurt right now," grumbled House, grimacing and shifting uncomfortably on the bed.

Foreman nodded.

Cameron smiled again, watching the two of them.

* * *

"House, stay still," came Chase's voice over the intercom.

"I'm trying. It'd help if it wasn't twenty degrees in here," snapped House in reply.

Chase frowned.

"It's not cold...." he sounded confused.

"Detox, idiot. Vicodin. Withdrawal symptoms."

Chase sighed, "chills, cold flashes..."

"Yeah. Where'd Foreman go, anyway?"

"Went to get some coffee."

"Ah."

A few moments passed in silence, "what do you think?"

"About you and him?" asked Chase, pressing a button on the CT control panel, "that it's nice to see."

"That's it? Two guys you've known for years start shagging each-other, and all you've got to say is that it's nice to see?"

"You trying to make me jealous?"

"Ick."

"Thought not. Honestly though, remember that guy Foreman brought to a hospital dinner that one time?"

"I don't go to hospital dinners."

"Well, whatever. He brought a friend to one, and I happened to see them in the parking lot."

"And you never thought to tell me this? I'm hurt."

"Yeah right. Like you'd have ever left him alone."

"Shut up."

Chase blinked.

Then he sighed.

House was more irritable that usual because of the detox.

"Anything yet?"

"No."

Silence.

"Chase, lemme out of here."

"What? Why, the scan isn't done?"

"Because I need to sit up if I'm not gonna puke all over myself."

Chase pressed a button and hurried out to pull the table out of the machine.

He grabbed a trash can from the corner, handing it to House, who looked thoroughly miserable.

Foreman came back in, stopping when he saw what was going on.

He sighed, shaking his head when Chase looked at him, and came in, taking the trash can and nodding that Chase could go.

* * *

Two hours later, House was back on the bed at home, and Foreman was untangling the line for the IV nutrition kit he had gotten Cameron to get from the ER.

House couldn't afford to lose any weight, he was still thinner than he should be from before the amputation.

"Cold."

Foreman looked at him.

"There's an extra blanket under the bed."

House reached down, fishing for it.

His fingers eventually found it, and he added it to the mess of covers he was already nestled in.

He was still shivering, and Foreman sighed, setting down the IV equipment and coming over to sit on the bed next to House.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, right."

House glared at him.

"Go the hell away!"

Foreman waited a few seconds.

House shook his head.

Foreman nodded, lifting the covers and sliding over next to the older doctor.

House—surprisingly—huddled against him, cold.

Foreman didn't like House being clingy, even if it was only because he was cold. It wasn't... he wasn't really being House, when he acted like this.

He was sure Cameron would enjoy it, but it just made him uncomfortable.

House's arm shot out, grabbing a tissue out of the box on the table next to the bed.

"Ow. Owowowow," he grunted, holding on to Foreman's shirt.

"What? Detox or something else?"

"Leg. Lack there-of."

"Phantom pain?"

House nodded, and Foreman sighed.

After a while House relaxed, back into the shivering misery of the detox

* * *

A month later....

"Happy birthday."

House raised his head from looking at the floor, concentrating on balancing with the final temporary prosthetic.

"What?"

"Ha-ppy bir-th-day."

House looked between Foreman and the box Foreman was holding out to him.

"Aunt's cake my missing foot."

Foreman smirked, as House took the box, blinking when he noticed how heavy it was. The cake box hadn't been nearly that heavy.

He sat down on the springy floor of the PT lab, seeing that the physical therapist was grinning.

"Wow," he said, indicating the therapist, "I wonder what it's gonna be..."

"Shut up and open the damn thing," replied Foreman, smirking.

House ripped the wrapping paper—blue and silver, printed with 'Happy Hanukkah'—off, opening the box underneath.

As he had suspected, the final prosthetic, a computerized one, with the socket that had been molded last week.

He hadn't guessed that it would be wearing a black and gray Nike shoe that looked suspiciously familiar.

He looked at Foreman, who was grinning, then at Foreman's shoes, then back up at Foreman.

"You. Are. Lame."

"But you love me anyway."

The atmosphere of the room changed dramatically.

That was the first time that word had been uttered in reference to their relationship.

Foreman swallowed.

Dammit, he knew House was still nervous about all this...

"Yeah. I do," said House, turning back to the leg.

Foreman sighed, smiling again.

"I really think I do."

There was still a lot of PT ahead, and House knew there was still a chance that the leg wouldn't work out, that he would get too exhausted by the extra energy expenditure, but...

Right now...

All of that didn't seem quite so bad.

"Oh, and Kuttner's planning a surprise party. Just thought I'd warn you, so you'd have a head start on running away."

....so much for that.


	15. Chapter 15

House stumbled, on the stairs up to the hallway his apartment was on.

Foreman grabbed his elbow, steadying him.

After House got his balance back, Foreman let go, and they headed over to the door across from House's.

"When did you call her to have her pick up your mail?"

"Didn't. We have an agreement. If the mail starts piling up, we'll deal with it for a year, after which if you haven't called, we'll just start throwing it away because we're probably dead."

"That's vaguely morbid..."

"They're eighty-nine and seventy-eight. What'd'ya want from them?"

Foreman blinked.

The door finally opened on an old woman, dressed in jogging shorts and a t-shirt.

"Oh, so you're not dead after-all."

"Nope. At least not that I know of."

"Ha-ha, very original. April had a stroke while you were gone, you know."

"She dead?"

"No, just incontinent."

"Ah."

"Pearl, you did not just tell him that?!"

"Oh yes I did!"

House smirked.

"So where were you? Other than the obvious," she said, pointing to Foreman, who was feeling rather awkward.

House pulled up his pant leg.

"They kidnapped me and replaced my leg with a robot."

"You must have been very traumatized."

"Literally or figuratively? 'cause you'd think literally would be pretty obvious, what with the big saw and everything."

She rolled her eyes.

House smirked.

"How?" she asked, more quietly.

"Pain got worse, they had to chop it off so I could stop screaming. The other guy in the room was very relieved, I'm told."

The old lady snorted.

"About the screaming ending, or you going under so you'd stop talking?"

"Not sure, ask Foreman. I was unconscious."

She looked the younger doctor over.

"You'll kill each other within the month, that's my bet."

"Aww... not even two?" whined House.

"Have you met yourself?"

"Yes, actually. It was very odd. The back of my head looked so much different than I imagined."

She snorted, still looking at Foreman.

Then she seemed to come to a decision, and looked back at House.

"Well, maybe one and a half."

House blinked. Then he grinned, "can I have my mail?"

She nodded, stepping back to let him and Foreman into the apartment, pointing to a pile in the corner.

"I read some of the magazines, by the way."

"Oh? Which ones, the medical stuff of the porn?"

"The medical stuff, of course. Your porn's way too tame for us."

House snickered, watching Foreman load the mail into the bag April brought over.

She looked at him.

"I'm sorry about your leg."

"I'm sorry about her stroke."

"No, she'll be fine. The only thing that went wrong was she peed at dinner. Took her to the hospital, they said it was a clot, gave her the meds, and sent her home."

House frowned.

"Did they do an angio?"

"No. She has high blood pressure and you know she's had them before."

"Yeah, but incontinence as the only symptom of a stroke is pretty rare. What hospital did you take her to?"

"Yours."

"Emergency room or ambulance?"

"Emergency room. She kept insisting that she was fine."

"I'll have someone pull her records, just to make sure."

She looked at him.

"You suspect something, don't you?"

He shrugged, shaking his head, "it just seems off. Too many things with low odds."

She nodded, just as Foreman finished packing the mail.

* * *

"Who are you calling?" asked Foreman, as they headed back to Foreman's apartment.

"Cameron. I was talking to Louise she said—"

"I thought her name was Pearl."

"I always forget their names. I call he one who answered the door Louise."

"How long have you lived across the hall from them?"

"Ten years. But she calls me Doogie, so I think we're even on that."

Foreman snorted.

* * *

'No, they didn't really run any tests. Seventy-nine year-old woman, high BP, yadda yadda yadda... drew some blood... white count slightly elevated, but that's it.... yeah, this is completely shoddy. That all you need? 'cause I have to go chew out the guy who treated her,' said Cameron.

"Yeah, that's all. Can you send the file to the diagnostics office?"

'Sure.'

"Bye."

Foreman was looking at him questioningly, from the floor where he was tying a shoe onto House's prosthetic.

"Could have been anything. They basically just slapped a band-aid on her and said goodbye. Didn't even kiss it better."

Foreman grimaced, finishing with the shoe and getting up after plugging the leg back in to charge.

"We going in?"

House snorted.

"Not yet. Gotta get the actual woman to go into the hospital."

Foreman blinked, "you're actually going to talk to a patient?"

House shrugged.

"She's not gonna come in otherwise."

"Do we have to leave right away?"

House grinned.

"Nope."

* * *

"It's ugly," commented House, lying next to Foreman on the bed.

Foreman looked at him.

"Sex?" he asked, smirking.

House rolled his eyes.

"No, _it_."

Foreman looked a the stump.

"It's a great big phallic symbol permanently attached to your body. What more could you want?"

House snorted, then sighed.

"I kind of liked the old phallic symbol better."

Foreman looked at him.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

House sighed again, dropping his head back into the pillows.

"It was longer," House deadpanned.

* * *

House sighed, as the door opened on April.

"Hi. I think you have an infection in your urinary tract."

She blinked at him.

"Pearl's out shopping."

He smirked.

"Thanks, but I'm not interested."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm actually serious about the infection."

She looked at him.

"Dear, could you get to the point?"

"Dude, that is the point."

"I'm not a dude."

"I'm not a dear."

She sighed again.

"You're bored. Go away."

"I'm a doctor. No."

"You're obsessing. Go away."

"I'm the head of diagostic medicine. No."

"I had a stroke. Go away."

"The neurologist I consulted said you didn't. No."

"You mean you asked your boyfriend and he agreed with you."

A pause.

"Well, yeah, but he doesn't agree with me on principle...."

She rolled her eyes.

"Right. Go away."

House sighed, shaking his head.

* * *

The phone was ringing.

House yawned, reaching over Foreman to grab it.

"Hello?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

'April Williams is here. Apparently she had an absence seizure, at least according to Pearl.'

"Who?"

'April Williams and Pearl Hawkins.'

"Who're they?"

'....your neighbors of the last ten years, apparently....'

"Oh... half asleep," said House, yawning again and shaking Foreman's shoulder, "if she said it was an absence seizure, it probably was. Send it to my team and tell them to get an F-MRI."

'Right. Are you....?'

"Yeah."

'Welcome back, House.'

House smirked, hanging up.

"Foreman. Foreman, wake up."

Foreman grunted.

House jabbed him in the shoulder, he sat up, blinking.

"April had an absence seizure."

"Who?"

"Thelma."

"Oh."

House snorted, climbing out of bed and hopping over to his leg.

"I hate putting on a cold leg in the morning."

Foreman smirked, reaching for a shirt.


	16. Chapter 16

Note: Pearl _**H**_awkins and April _**W**_illiams were originally invented as a metaphoric/symbolic device for a really old House/Wilson fic, but I ended up liking them enough to use them for the sake of just their personalities in other fics that aren't h/w.

* * *

"Seventy-eight year-old female, loss of bladder control while eating dinner with her girlfriend," announced House, opening the door and tripping a little on the way in.

All three kids turned to stare at him.

Standing.

Upright.

Mostly balanced.

Without a cane.

"How's the leg working out?"asked Kutner.

"Hers? You think that might be what's wrong with her? Wow, leg problem leading to urinary incontinence, hmmm.... haven't read about that...."

Thirteen rolled her eyes.

"No, I meant your leg."

House looked Kutner.

"Just shut up."

Kutner sighed, turning back to the file.

"ER diagnosed it as a stroke. Are we sure that's not what it was?" asked Taub.

"Yeah, we're sure. The absence seizure rules that out. Did you find anything on the F-MRI?"

"Patient has an artificial hip. Inserted--"

"Four years ago, yeah, I remember... damn I hate that magnet...."

All three of them looked at him, blinking.

"You know the patient?" asked Thirteen.

"Lives across the hall."

They all blinked.

"Probably an infection. Started in the urinary tract, messed with the kidneys, caused toxins to build up, caused the seizure," said Foreman from behind House.

"Yes. Kutner, take your big mouth down to the patient room and start swabbing by the old lady's poosal."

Kutner left, looking less disgusted that House would have liked.

"Could also be cerebral degeneration... hell, ask her if she's been huffing nitrous-oxide... Thirteen, test for any genetic diseases that could cause this, Taub ask about drugs and run a tox screen."

"You think your seventy-eight-year-old neighbor is a druggie?"

"No, but I think everyone likes a good high. Go, talk, test."

Thirteen bumped House's arm a little, as she and Taub walked past him, and he stumbled, trying to regain his balance.

Foreman caught him around the chest.

Thirteen stopped.

"Sorry."

House shook his head.

She nodded, following Taub's retreating back down the hall.

Foreman set House back on his feet.

House sighed, wobbling over to the table and sitting down in one of the chairs.

Foreman sighed as well, walking over to stand next to him.

He looked tired, he had been breathing heavily by the time they had gotten to the office from the elevator...

He still wasn't really ready for the leg, but...

Foreman guessed if he had to backtrack to the crutches, he wouldn't be happy.

* * *

"Negative on the nitrous," reported Taub, entering the differential room about half an hour later, "they denied it, though the older one seemed to think it was funny that I asked. Also, the patient would like me to point out that she would probably notice if she had an infection bad enough to shut down her kidneys."

House sighed.

"Go help Thirteen with the genetic tests, take Kutner with you after he finishes setting up the bacterial cultures."

Taub nodded, leaving.

House sighed, leaning back in the chair.

Foreman looked at him.

"Pain?"

He shrugged.

Not bad enough to be worth doing anything about.

Foreman nodded.

"Any ideas on the diagnosis?"

"The obvious one that you're avoiding."

House looked at him.

Foreman had his eyebrow at full mast.

House sighed again, looking away.

Cancer and paraneoplastic syndrome, either in the brain and attacking the peripheral nerves, or in the urinary tract and attacking the brain.

Cancer.

Oncology.

Head of oncology.

Wilson.

* * *

"So, you work with Greg, huh?" asked the old woman standing next to the bed her partner was asleep on, "you seem like the type he'd be interested in."

Thirteen looked at her, she laughed and shook her head.

"I mean literally interested in. fascinated by."

"Oh," said Thirteen, laughing a little, "yeah."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the young doctor.

"Where has Dr. Wilson been? Didn't see him for months before Greg disappeared, and I know Greg would never have pushed him away all the way..."

Thirteen sighed.

"It's... complicated...."

The old woman tilted her head in a way that was very reminiscent of House.

"So explain it. I may be old, but I'm not senile."

* * *

"No sign of infection, hereditary, non-hereditary neuro-degenerative diseases," reported Thirteen, "and Pearl wants to chew out Wilson because she got me to tell her about Amber."

House sighed.

"Maybe the seizure was actually a transient ischemic attack, and the incontinence is from muscle weakness. Do an angio."

"No sign of clots, bleeds or muscle weakness."

House groaned.

"What's her white-count?"

"Elevated."

"Could be a brain infection. Do a lumbar puncture."

They nodded, leaving.

* * *

"Dear," started April, as Kutner injected the local for the lumbar puncture, "I forgot to mention something in my medical history. My uncle had cancer... and so did my older sister, before she disappeared."

Kutner stopped.

"What kind?"

"Lung and ovarian... respectively, obviously."

Kutner nodded.

"I'll mention it to House."

Pearl suddenly put a hand on his gloved one.

He looked at her.

"He won't go with it. Push the idea."

"How--"

"Cancer means Wilson."

* * *

"Patient has a family history of cancer and the LP was clear."

"What kind?"

"Lung and ovarian."

House shook his head.

"Not relevant."

"Pearl said you'd say that."

House looked at Kutner.

He sighed.

"Fine. Yes, she knows me. No, that doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"House. Quit the bullshit. You know you're avoiding. Cancer's the best fit, right now."

House looked at Foreman.

Then back at the kids.

Then back at Foreman.

"Do head and lower abdominal CT's looking for cancer."

They nodded and left.

House sighed.

"Dammit... when did everyone suddenly start being able to predict my motives?"

"Since you made it obvious you give a damn about someone. Big mistake," answered Foreman.

House groaned.

* * *

"There's a spot... I don't know, it could be carcinoma, but I can't...."

House bit his lip, looking at the CT with a hand on the wall to balance himself.

He looked at Foreman, standing there with his "no bullshit" expression firmly in place, his arms folded as he leaned against the wall. House had the double urge to slug him and kiss him. He seemed to get them together an awful lot of the time....

"Fine. I'll... I'm getting a consult."

He walked out, wavering briefly near the doorway, then regaining his balance.

* * *

Wilson blinked, as the door to his office banged open.

"With a patient," he said automatically, before remembering that they still had a grand canyon between them. Then he blinked.

House was standing up.

As in, without support other than the doorway he was steadying himself on.

"Need a consult. Otherwise I wouldn't be here, you know that."

Wilson sighed, looking at his patient.

She smiled, nodding.

He got up, following House's slightly unsteady gate out the door.

"Here," said House, shoving the scan at him and stuffing his hands in his pocket, looking uncomfortable. Actually, uncomfortable was an understatement. He looked like he was standing on a bed of red-hot nails, but was too rooted to the spot to get off them.

"Who is this?"

"Thelma."

Wilson looked at him.

"From across the hall?"

House nodded.

Wilson blinked.

"That explains why Pearl was in the hospital in the first place...."

House looked at him.

He shrugged.

"I got yelled at by an eighty-nine-year-old for being an insufferable asshole prick."

House snorted.

"She has that effect."

"So do you."

House closed his mouth, shut down completely.

Wilson sighed.

"I have to look at this on a light box."

House nodded silently, following him down the hall to the doctor's lounge.

Wilson snapped the scans up, peering at them.

"How's the leg working out?"

Silence.

He turned around, looking at House.

House was completely rigid, he looked like someone was holding a knife to his throat, except he probably would have been calmer if that were the case.

"Right," said Wilson, turning back to the scans, "that, there, looks like a carcinoma. Do a biopsy to be sure, but..."

He took the scans down, turning to hand them to House.

House was blinking rapidly.

Wilson frowned for a moment, then realized what was happening.

He took House by the shoulders, sat him down in a chair, and watched him, fidgeting with the plastic sheets in his hands as he waited for House to come out of the seizure.

House eventually seemed to regain some awareness of what was going on around him, but he looked shaken.

"Can you tell me your name?"

House looked at him, eyes sort of blank.

"Wilson?"

Wilson laughed quietly.

House was just still coming out of the seizure, so the incorrect answer didn't mean anything bad, it was just funny.

"Nope. That's my name, not yours."

House swallowed, leaning forward, head in his hands.

"Dammit."

"Sorry," said Wilson, feeling slightly bad for laughing, hesitantly placing his hand on House's shoulder, "you ok?"

"Yeah... just... disoriented...."

"Are you sure? You seem pretty confused..."

"I'm fine!"

Wilson rolled his eyes.

For a brief moment, it was though nothing had changed between them, as though Wilson was still overly caring and worried, and House was still refusing any attempts at human contact.

Then House jerked away from the hand, and the moment was over.

House looked upset, even beyond what could be explained by the seizure.

"Dammit..." he muttered, levering himself to his feet, and pacing unsteadily around the room, "just..."

The prosthetic leg caught on a raised bit of carpet, and House tripped.

He landed with a thud, and Wilson, having edged almost all the way to the door, hurried back in, checking him over for injuries.

"Get away from me!"

Wilson sat back on his heels, blinking.

House was....

House sniffed, wiping his face viciously on his sleeve.

Wilson's eyes softened.

"House..." he took a deep breath, "can we start over?"

House looked at him.

"What?"

"Can we start over. I can't... I'm moving on, but I can't... so can we just start over?"

House swallowed.

There was a long silence.

"Hi. Greg House. I'm missing a leg and I'm a son of a bitch."

He held out his hand.

Wilson laughed, taking it, "James Wilson. I've been married three times and I just lost my second girlfriend in a row."

House smirked, and Wilson gave him a hand up.

"Oh, and I basically tortured my best friend for the last few months without real cause."

"Sounds like we're both screwed up."

"You have no idea.... see you around?"

Wilson nodded, smiling, "maybe if you get that leg working better we can go bowling sometime."

House nodded, walking out of the room.

Wilson took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as House disappeared.

Though... he still wondered how Pearl had known that would work so well—for both of them.


	17. Chapter 17

House sighed, pushing open the door to the lobby.

"Hi. How's the leg?" asked Cuddy's annoyingly cheerful voice.

House looked at her.

"Why do you want to know?"

She stopped, hesitating.

He shook his head, smirking, "you want to know because you want to know if you can assign me clinic duty."

She smiled.

"That, and I'd like to know how you're doing."

He shrugged.

"I'd be dancing, if I didn't suck at it in the first place."

She looked at him.

He sighed.

"Yeah, ok... the sore muscles and exhaustion isn't so great, but...."

She nodded.

"I'm sure I can find you a chair, then."

"Hey, wait, you can't--"

Foreman, who had been listening to the whole thing as he signed them both in at the front desk, snorted.

"She's got you, House. And she's not gonna let you go until she's done with you."

He looked despondently at the younger doctor, who just smirked at him.

"You're both just big meanies," he announced, making both of them smirk a little, "see if you get any tonight."

"I doubt you'll actually care by tonight."

"Good point."

House walked off towards the clinic.

Cuddy and Foreman watched him go, blinking.

That was probably the most cheerful House had ever looked while going through those doors.

* * *

"Hi, I'm Dr. House."

"Hi. I have a toothpaste tube in my large intestine."

"Well, the toothpaste part, yeah, but I'm the one who gets to say where it is. That's why I've got the stethoscope and you don't."

The man opened his shirt.

The was a small bulge in his abdomen.

House raised an eyebrow.

"It kind of hurts," the man admitted, "it's been there a week."

First day back, and they were still idiots.

* * *

Several months later:

House sighed, standing next to Foreman as they waited for the damn hospital board to make a their decision.

The janitor discovering them in the closet had been... unfortunate... but it wasn't like they were the only couple ever discovered in that position. On that floor. In that closet. Today.

Just, apparently, the only one consisting of two males in an employer-employee situation, hence the special meeting being held.

They saw movement in the room, and Cuddy came out.

"Foreman is co-department head to avoid and employee harassment stuff, I doubt you'll have a problem with that since it was practically true before, and try not to get caught again."

"That's it? Half those guys are complete bigots."

"Wilson mentioning the weird lawyer's girl-slash-boy friends helped."

Foreman and House both snorted.

Cuddy sighed, looking at House.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, quietly.

He looked at her for a while.

"No, I don't think I am, anymore. Probably has something to do with your decisions causing me to be happier than I've ever been before in my life."

She smiled, relieved.

* * *

House raised his head from leaning on the balcony wall, reading, as arms slipped around his waist from the back.

He rested his head back against the shoulder, smiling a little bit.

"Cuddy let you off clinic for tonight?"

"Yeah."

He let out a deep breath, then turned around, grinning.

Foreman smirked.

"Good," said House, walking off the balcony.

Foreman followed him, sitting on the edge of his desk as he watched House pack up for the day.

"You make sure the nice shoes still fit with the prosthetic?"

"Yes, Foreman. I'm not a moron."

"No, you're a socially inept misanthrope. Which, in this case, makes you _act_ like a moron."

House snorted, shouldering his pack as they walked out the door.

* * *

When they got home, House went into the kitchen, and Foreman went into the bedroom.

House dug around in the cabinet until he was able to reach the box in the very back corner.

Foreman reached far up into the closet, feeling for—there it was.

They pulled out small black boxes, opening them briefly to check the nearly identical contents, then shutting them with an identical snap.

* * *

Foreman smirked, sitting across the table from House as they waited for the food to arrive.

It was funny. They had been together for almost a year, but this was their first official 'date'.

So far, it wasn't going that great—House was always uncomfortable in places like this, no matter who he was with. Although, Foreman was guessing he would be a lot _more_ uncomfortable with a different person.

House sighed, looking around at the people at the other tables.

His right hand, which was usually fidgeting with the edge of the socket through his pants when he wasn't doing anything with it, was tonight running along the hinge of the box in his pocket.

Foreman took a sip of water, feeling the box in his pocket weighing against his leg.

"Why are we doing this, again?" asked House, trying to conceal the fact that he was way more nervous than just being in a nice restaurant would usually cause.

"Because... I don't know, you're the one who brought it up."

"I was joking."

Foreman shrugged.

The soup came.

Several people were looking at them.

Foreman ignored them, House stuck his tongue out at them.

"Stop it."

House looked at him.

"Unless you want to give it something else to do..." he muttered.

Foreman snorted.

"Wonder what they'd do if I took my leg off..."

Foreman looked at him.

God he looked uncomfortable.

"We can leave, if you want." dammit.

House shook his head.

"I think I can _handle_ a _dinner_."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

House sighed, running his thumb over his jawbone.

Foreman smirked.

"Where'd you get the razor?"

House shrugged.

"Borrowed Cuddy's."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Actually do own one... though it took a while to find."

Foreman had been a little shocked, when he had walked into the bathroom to find a completely clean-shaven House struggling desperately with his tie.

House had said he wished he wasn't so tangled up in silk, so he could take a picture of Foreman's expression.

Foreman had rolled his eyes, started to help him with the tie, and ended up with his tongue in the older doctor's mouth.

To tell the truth, he had actually missed the stubble.

* * *

Half an hour later, they were finishing up the main course, and both of them had their hands in their pockets, waiting for the right moment.

The lights in the restaurant started to dim.

They started to pull the boxes out.

House started blinking.

Foreman sighed, stood, and led him to the bathroom.

They got several odd looks, but Foreman knew there would be a lot more if House started seizing in the middle of the restaurant.

House sat down on the bench, leaning forwards, head in his hands.

Foreman sighed, standing next to the bench, hand on his shoulder.

House jerked a little, raising his arm for a moment, then lowered it.

He shook his head.

"NO!"

Foreman caught him as he shot forward off the bench, keeping him from hitting anything on the cold floor—he never managed to use the prosthetic correctly during these, which was actually sort of a blessing, since it kept him from running randomly around.

He started blinking again, half held up by Foreman's arm.

"Noooo...."

Foreman sat him back on the bench.

Someone came in, then jumped as House shouted again.

Foreman shook his head, "seizure."

The person blinked for a second, shrugged, and walked over to the urinal.

House finally started blinking again, sitting completely still.

The guy washed his hands, looking at them again, and left.

Foreman sat down on the bench next to House, arm around his shoulders as he slowly came out of it.

"You ok?"

House groaned, leaning against the younger doctor.

Dammit....

"Ok," said Foreman, "it's ok."

House nodded, closing his eyes.

Damn he was dizzy...

Foreman just waited, rubbing House's shoulder and watching his face.

Eventually House opened his eyes again, nodding.

"Ok. I'm good."

Foreman nodded, standing up.

House stood as well, but ended up stumbling and leaning against Foreman, who sighed.

"No you're not."

House shrugged, sitting back down.

Someone else came in, walked into one of the stalls.

House leaned forward again, groaning.

They guy came out, looked a them, washed his hands, left.

Foreman sighed.

At least House's suit jacket was still at the table so it wouldn't look like they had walked out on the bill.

House jerked, diving off the bench again.

Dammit, this was taking longer than usual.

Foreman sat down on the floor, leaned against the wall, and pulled House close.

At least right now it just looked like a panic attack.

House eventually seemed to just fall asleep, head drooping to rest on Foreman's shoulder.

Foreman shook him gently, he jerked a little, looking around hazily.

He looked at Foreman, swallowing dryly.

"Hey."

"Yeah. Hey."

House looked exhausted.

"You up for desert, or you just wanna go home?"

House closed his eyes.

Foreman sighed.

Guess that answers that...

He left House sleeping on the bench, paid the bill, got House's jacket, and went to collect his unfortunate boyfriend.

House was snoring by the time he got back, and took a while to wake up.

While Foreman was shaking him, something fell out of his pocket.

Black. Box.

Foreman stared at it for a moment.

Then looked at House, smirking and shaking his head.

"Hey."

House finally opened his eyes.

"What?"

"You dropped something."

House looked at the floor.

Two black boxes.

He looked at Foreman, who smirked.

"Well there goes the speech..."

"You had a speech?" asked Foreman, handing House his coat.

House shrugged.

"I figured it out ahead of time, 'cause I know I suck at that kind of thing."

Foreman leaned against the wall, tilting his head.

"What was it?"

House pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, making Foreman snort.

"You wrote it down?"

House looked at him, rolling his eyes.

"As has been mentioned, I suck at this sort of thing."

Foreman shrugged.

"What was it?"

House shook his head.

Foreman made a grab for the paper, House jerked it away.

"Fine," he said, laughing, "I'll say it."

Foreman grinned, picking up House's box and handing it to him.

House cleared his throat, still looking a little sleepy, and started.

"Life sucks. Life always sucks. I used to think it could be changed, and I fought really hard to do that, but... it never changed. Life always sucked. By the time I had my infarction, I didn't even see other people trying to change that. It all seemed useless, nobody ever managed their dreams that I saw. Everybody was too afraid of offending someone else to say what they really thought, and nobody ever accomplished what they set out to do. Then Cuddy decided I needed another fellow, and I happened to interview this one guy. He didn't give a damn what I thought about him, even though that mattered for whether he got the job or not. So I didn't throw away his resume after he left, and called a bunch of people. That guy was the first person I had ever met who actually had the guts to fight for something, even though all of society was telling him he would never make it. That was fascinating to me, so I hired him. Life still sucked, but he was interesting. Then, recently, life started sucking even more. And more. And more. But I noticed something. Life sucked more, but I was getting happier. And happier. And happier. I think I'd like that second trend to continue."

He held out the box.

Foreman was looking at him oddly.

House raised an eyebrow, "what?"

Foreman shook his head, taking the box.

Then he pulled a piece of paper out of his own pocket, which made House snicker.

He grinned, picking up his box.

"You're a manipulative bastard. I hated you. I did everything I possibly could to prove you wrong. I fought you at every turn, and I argued with you constantly. I was disgusted by some parts of you, and grudgingly admired other parts. I looked up to you as a doctor, and down on you as a human being. When Cuddy stuck me in that room with you, I thought I was going to be miserable, and I was, at first. I still hated you, still argued with you, still thought you were juvenile and annoying. And then, I was thinking. I was thinking, and I started to realize that, positive or negative, I had more feelings and thoughts about you than anyone else I had ever met. And I was starting to realize that I enjoyed the arguments, and the fighting, and everything except the misanthropy. And I noticed that the wall I didn't like, was starting to go down. I was happier sitting in that hospital room than I'd ever been before, because I enjoyed who I was with. I thing I'd like that trend to continue."

House smirked, taking the box Foreman held out.

By the time they left, two fingers were bearing nearly identical gold bands.

END


End file.
